


Und die Vögel singen nicht mehr

by Frankieteardrop



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M, angsty, probably slow building, tags will change as time goes on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankieteardrop/pseuds/Frankieteardrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Till Lindemann's perspective.  Around 1986, pre-rammstein.  Till is living as a single father with Nele and is starting to become desperately lonely.</p><p>Editing began: 19th December 2016</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do we still have to do Disclaimers? Does anyone really think we own any of them? 
> 
> Well anyway, I don't own any members of Rammstein. This is a work of fiction, no matter how factually accurate I have attempted to be. All comments, concerns and criticisms are welcomed here or on my tumblr (frankieteardr0p)

                In your twenty-third year of living, your father decided that you were depressed, that you needed to get a grip on life and that you needed to sort yourself out. This baffled you greatly because really, you didn’t think you were close enough to your father for him to really understand your inner workings. In fact, you liked to keep people at arms-length. You like to be an enigma. You enjoy knowing more about others than they know about you and that’s how you would like to be. But in a sense, you know that your father is correct. You are feeling rather sullen because there were a lot of things that you would rather hadn’t happened, but ultimately you also wouldn’t change for the world. There was an awful lot of responsibility piled onto your shoulders at that young juncture of your life and you weren't wholly certain as to how you were going to deal with it. According to someone who you assume doesn’t know a great deal about you, you have been dealing with your responsibility with as much enthusiasm as if you were being dragged to your death. But we understand; when you’re twenty-three, all you really want to do is go out and be sociable and live your life as a young man. However, you are at home every Friday and Saturday night with your daughter. And while you love her more than life itself, sometimes you just wish you could go out and be a young man (much to the guilt you feel after experiencing these feelings).

                You looked down at the sleeping bundle in your lap and sighed to yourself. You’d had to call off practice with your band again because unfortunately, Nele’s sight chest infection had worsened and you’d decided it was best the two of you just stay in the warm with antibiotics and warm milk. She was a strong girl, she was not a sickly baby and this was really the first time she'd been properly sick since she was born. She was a beautiful baby though, and you only had eyes for her. You'd never thought that you’d experience love quite like this until the doctors brought you into the room where her mother was and they put Nele into your arms. You looked down into that defenceless bundle of sheets and saw the face of God. She was perfect, and there was really nothing you could do to stop yourself falling in love. She was your saviour.

                But again, as a young man, you wanted to be able to be a young man, but unfortunately it was incredibly difficult to just be a young man with so much responsibility on top of you. Regardless, Nele needed you right now and there was not a great deal you can do about that until she got better.

                You had a fleeting thought that maybe a few of your friends could come over later in the evening and spend some time with you, quietly, while Nele slept. They were all fairly good with her, and she seemed to enjoy their company. She was a pleasant little girl who loved the company of others, not like you in the slightest. You always wondered about children, and their development of attachments. You were vaguely aware, from curious readings of late, that children go through various stages of attachment as they grow older. At that time, Nele was more than happy to be with anyone as long as they were making positive sounds at her. Soon, she would only be happy when her father was holding her and was close to her, then she would go full circle, and you know eventually that she would get to an age where she wouldn’t need you anymore, but that wasn’t for years yet.

                You sighed softly and put her down into her crib before heading to the fridge to get to something to eat. You realised then that there was no food in there because you’d been so busy trying to make Nele better that you’d forgotten to look after yourself. There was a moment of panic that you’d have to take her out in the cold. But it was the middle of the day and you needed to grab some food, so you took care of yourself to get wrapped up and got her ready for going out, swaddling her in blankets so the cold wouldn't reach her at all. You thanked your mother mentally as you set up the stroller she’d bought you as a baby-present for Nele and you placed her into it, blankets and all, barely visible beneath the mound of fabric. As you walked towards the shop, you thought to yourself that possibly a walk in the park might be good for her, and for you, just to get some fresh air in your lungs. You felt a little cramped. You felt all squished up and you needed to stretch out and get the stale air from your apartment out of you and something more natural into your body.

                As you stopped by the shop, you picked up some essentials for Nele, and a few simple things for yourself; some bread, some meats, some cheese. You looked down at her, all tucked up asleep and you felt guilty for bringing her out. But she did look comfortable. You spent a few moments standing next to the cereals, doing nothing but staring at her. But there was always something missing. Since her mother had gone and you were left alone with her, there seemed to be a gaping hole in your life which needed filling. There should be someone there who you can put those romantic feelings onto which you so desperately needed to release; not in some sort of crude sense, but a sort of romantic and creative release for your soul, someone that you know you are wholly in love with. And you knew that there was everything in your life that you could possibly need but ultimately, this was a want. And you wanted someone to fill that void.

                You sighed to yourself and paid for you things, leaving the shop and heading down to the park for a while. You just wanted to stay away from home for as long as she will allow you. So you walked, and you walked, and you finally found a bench in the most secluded part of the park, allowing yourself a few moments of silence before you began to eat. Nele was still fast asleep so you didn’t need to worry about her, and you relaxed back, gently rocking her stroller with your foot as you cobbled together a rush-job sandwich of ham and smoked cheese. You were never a fussy eater by a long shot but you wished that you had someone who was a better chef than yourself to cook for you occasionally in the house. You thought back to your brief marriage to Nele’s mother, and how happy you seemed for such a short period of time just being in the company of another person. You admitted to yourself that you’d tried to find another person, but it’s often difficult to get a sitter, and you know relying on just bumping into someone and finding that spark is just impossible. You know that love at first sight is often unrequited.

                But still, you took a look at your surroundings; at the swans on the lake, swimming together in contented silence and you know that if they had fingers that they’d probably be holding hands. And it made you sick, if you really thought about it; that animals can fall in love and mate for life but humans can’t handle a few months in one another’s company before things get too hot. You’re not bitter by any stretch of the imagination, but you still harbour a slight anger towards her for leaving. You outwardly would never say a bad thing about her, you’re not that kind of person and you’re aware that you weren’t exactly the best person for her either, but ultimately she did leave, and that cut you deeper than you’d ever imagined it might do considering you weren’t really sure if you loved her or not. As you look down into the blankets to make sure Nele is still sleeping, you feel a little thanks towards her though, because your ex-wife might have left, but she did leave behind the greatest love you’d ever felt.

                “Excuse me, Do you have a light?”

                You’re snapped out of your thoughts by a smooth, deep voice, and you are greeted by a very young man. The man (using that term lightly, he cannot be older than eighteen) appeared to be a little shorter than yourself. He had a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes, almost hidden under a mass of blonde dreadlocks.

                “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

                “Do you have a light?” The man said again, holding up his cigarette to show what he was talking about. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Do you mind if I sit?”

                “No, not at all.”

                You moved yourself over and made sure that you’re upstream of the trail of cigarette smoke to keep it away from Nele and pull out your own cigarettes, handing a lighter to the other man. You only really afford yourself the luxury of smoking when you take Nele for a walk because you don’t like smoking around her in the house.

                “Sorry,” he apologises again. “I’m on my lunch break and I need to just get away from the shop for a while.” He explains. “I always come here and bring some of the out of date bread to feed them.” He grins then, reaching into what appears to be the deepest pocket you’ve ever seen and he pulls out a plastic bag filled with a few slices of bread.

                “That doesn’t look mouldy?” You frown. It seems incredibly wasteful to you that he’s giving bread to ducks when there are people who need feeding.

                “The store aren’t allowed to sell it once it’s past it’s sell by date and they also won’t let me take it home. So I steal it and feed it to the ducks.” He smiles, “Plus, there’s a little mould.” He pushes the bread right up against the bag and shows you it. There’s a few little green-grey speck on the brown bread and you nod. He then picked off a few pieces of the bread, presumably with mould on them, before shoving a large chunk into his mouth.

                “That’s very caring of you.” You say softly, taking a long, deep drag of your cigarette. As you look, the ducks and geese are walking up the bank towards him as if they know.

                “They’ve been waiting for me.” He smiled, breaking the bread into small pieces and throwing it to the ground. The ducks and geese spend a long time picking up the small crumbs, and you swear you saw them smiling. “Here…” he offered you some of the bread, “Want to feed them?” he asked you, and you find yourself taking the bread from him and breaking it up, feeding the bird with it. It’s not something you really expected yourself to enjoy doing as you grew older but it still held the joys you remembered as a child. “I’m Richard.” He said calmly, perching his cigarette between his lips as he offered you his hand. He seemed more mature than his years, but also has this warming, childish way about him that you’re coming to enjoy.

                “Till,” you told him, shaking his hand. His skin was warm and his handshake was firm, but not uncomfortably so. “Nice to meet you.”

                “It’s not often I see others this far into the park.” He explained, “I’m usually on my own here. I must admit I was a bit weirded out by seeing another person here. I almost kept walking.” He laughed then, and it was warm and well-meaning.

                “Well it’s nice to just sit with another person sometimes, especially if you spend a lot of time alone.” You sighed, looking down at Nele.

                “I guess you’re right.” He said as he looks down into the stroller with you. “She looks like good company though.” He smiled, looking down at his wrist-watch.

                “She’s not bad, but she’s not much of a conversationalist.” You replied, watching the man stamp out his cigarette on the ground and get to his feet.

                “I must go now, back to the grindstone, but it was nice chatting with you.” He told you, nodding in your direction, “maybe see you again soon.”

                “Certainly so.” You replied, watching him leave. You looked down at the sleeping baby that’s lying there in the blankets. She hadn’t moved at all. So you decided to leave and get her home before she woke up and then you could give her the medicine to make her better. You take a slow walk back to the house, and make sure that Nele is okay once you’re home.

                “Richard” you said out loud to yourself as you picked Nele up. “What do you think?” you asked her as she slept, something you'd gotten used to since her mother left. “He might be a better friend to us than anyone else has been recently.” You said to the sleeping child, pressing a kiss to her head as you hold her close to you. You wandered around the living room with her in your arms, and felt her start to wake and wiggle around. She began to pipe up, so you started to get her ready for food and antibiotics.

                “Richard.” You repeated as you kiss her head. She giggled and gurgled as you spoke nonsense to her, feeding her some antibiotics before getting her bottle ready. She seemed contented, and as your mother told you often, she reminded her of you as a child. Rarely crying, always watching.

                As you sat there feeding your daughter, she seemed content on just suckling at the bottle. Your brain thought back to the things your father had said about you. Maybe he was right for once. He might not know you very well but maybe he can recognise the signs of being depressed very well. You thought for a while and actually you thought he might well be right. You cursed yourself for agreeing with him but you’d never tell him. You know a little about depression, but it doesn’t appear to be everything you thought it would be. Maybe you just need new friends. Maybe you just need some new friends and a new social circle. Maybe that would fix things up. Maybe you’d feel better about yourself.

                You finished feeding Nele and put her down on the set of blankets on the floor with all of her toys. She was quite happy there for a while, rolling and wriggling around. She looked around the room for a moment, spying you and watching you.

                “I’m just going to go and get coffee, babygirl.” You told her, and as you turn to walk to the kitchen, she squealed, whining. And as you turn back to her, she stops. “Just some coffee Nele.” You explained to her, and turn again, to which she starts sobbing once more. You sighed softly, heading back to pick her up and take her to the kitchen with you. “Honestly, you can’t keep doing this Cornelia. You’re okay to be on your own for a few minutes. Nothing is going to happen while I’m here.” You told her, gently kissing her head as she snuggled close to you. You couldn’t be sad about it when she was as adorable as she was. “I don’t know where I’d be without you, Nele…” you told her, putting the kettle on the stove to warm water for yourself.

 

* * *

 

                You sat for a while by yourself, staring out of the window at the scene around your house. You’d always liked the serenity that the countryside had to offer, the silence it brought of a night. You enjoyed the sound of silence.

                Your mother had taken Nele for the day, to thoroughly spoil her, you were sure, and you felt quite happy to have some time for yourself. You wanted to spend the day catching up on the reading and the writing you’d not been able to do since Nele got into that attachment phase where she wanted to be with you all the time and never not. But instead, you found yourself wrapping up in your coat. It was a Thursday, much like it had been the previous week, but this time you were missing a small child. You wrapped a scarf around your neck and put a hat on your head because the breezy autumnal weather has begun to turn as the harsh northern wind wrapped itself around every inch of skin and sent a deep sting right into your bones. You were glad that the winter was here. You loved swimming in the lake in the winter.

                You made your way down to the park and worked your way through the people to the place where you’d been before. You were sure to pack a few slices of bread, just in case he wasn’t there to feed the geese. As you made your way to the bench were you’d sat before, you spot him, smoking and throwing small bits of bread to the birds before him.

                “Excuse me, do you have a light?” you asked him, moving to take a seat next to the now familiar man.

                “Ah! Till, how good to see you again!” he said to you, offering his hand. “How have you been?” he asked, reaching into his pocket to find a lighter for you, sparking it up to light your cigarette between your lips.

                “I’m okay thank you, yourself?” you asked, taking a long, deep drag on your cigarette.

                “I’m fine, I’m fine! Where’s your beautiful companion today?”

                “She’s with my mother.” You told him.

                “Ah! A little free time, hmm? And you’ve decided to spend it with me and the ducks, huh?” he said to you, “That’s nice.”

                “Yeah, I like fresh air.” You told him, and the two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment.

                “So I don’t have to go back to work this afternoon, I just wanted to come back and feed the ducks before I went home.”

                “That was kind of you. I actually brought some bread in case you weren’t here.” You told him, showing him the few slices of bread you’d brought with you for feeding.

                “They’ll love you forever if you come every day and feed them. They see me coming every day.” He told you. You handed him a slice of bread and you sat for a moment, feeding the ducks in silence like you had the week before. The birds seemed very contented as they ate what you were giving them and you felt a little less lonely than before.

                “It’s quite isolating, being a single father.” You told him, quite inexplicably. You didn’t understand why you wanted to divulge all these things to this complete stranger. It made you feel a little weird, if you were really honest with yourself, but you felt so much better for telling someone that who wasn’t your mother. She understood how you felt but didn’t do a great deal in order to alleviate those feelings from you.

                “You’re a single father? That’s interesting…” he said quietly. He looked over at you for a while and then stared back out at the lake. “You look as though you’ve not had a moment to yourself for the last eight years.” He said softly after a moment. He reached into his pocket and handed you a piece of paper. “This is a flyer for my band’s gig in a couple of days.” He told you, “If you can get away, come down. Meet some new people!”

                “Sounds good to me.” You told him, pocketing the flyer after looking over it briefly.

                “Good! It’s on Saturday, so don’t be late!” he smiled. “I’ve got to get home now anyway, so maybe see you then.” He got to his feet. “Or see you back here one afternoon with your lovely lady!” he grinned at you, and proceeded to shove another cigarette into his mouth.

                “Until then.” You said, nodding towards him as he began to walk away.

                You felt a slight spark of something awaken in you, not that you were sure what the spark was. You welcomed this change. Things seemed to be looking up. Now you had the challenge of actually getting there on Saturday.

 


	2. Chapter 2

               The year is 1986. It is the seventeenth day of November in this year and you’re becoming increasingly nervous about the outing you’re about to undertake. It’s the evening. The rain is pelting down from the heavens in little watery bullets that you can see viciously ripping into your plants on the porch in your garden. You look down at the crumpled flyer that sits on the counter in front of you. You contemplate going, unsure as to whether just turning up would be the wisest decision for you. You only know Richard, and even then you’ve met him twice for approximately twenty minutes in a park while feeding ducks and geese. But it feels worth going. You decide to go, for the sake of it, because your mother has agreed to look after Nele for the evening and as a consequence you’ll just sit at home alone if you don’t.

               You get yourself ready and spend a time looking at yourself in the mirror. You decide it best to spend some time making yourself look as much like a normal twenty three year old as you can rather than a single father suffering from chronic exhaustion and crippling loneliness. You knew there was going to be some pretty famous people there as you spy the name ‘Feeling B’ on the list of bands. This is both great and also terrible. You think back to the face you saw on Richard and wonder if he’s the kind of person who might know them? It’d be cool if he did; if he introduced you to them. But then that thought is also equally terrifying. You’ve not met anyone new, except for Richard, in a long time and even meeting him felt entirely by accident. You never intended for him to become this quasi-friend of yours, and you’re uncertain as to whether anything will come of this so-called friendship anyway.

               Regardless of what you’re feeling right now, you continue to dress yourself and opt for comfort rather than style. This might be the punk scene, but you rationalise it to yourself as being more punk to do what you want than to adhere to set style-norms. You throw on your coat and look wrap yourself up before heading out into the crisp evening and into town.

               Sometimes you’re grateful that you live so far away from town because ultimately, you don’t ever have to see anyone, which is a blessing, and other times you really curse yourself for being such a recluse because the walk into town is marginally less fun when it’s cold and wet and you know you could have driven but beer and cars are a mix you wish to avoid, especially since you’ve been raising Nele. You’ve become overly cautious about a lot of things since she was born and decide that possibly you’re over-reacting. You’re not far enough that you couldn’t go back and get the car to drive yourself to the venue but you then think that you want to be able to drink and let go for once and not be held back by your responsibilities. After all, your mother isn’t bringing Nele back until at least tomorrow evening.

               You pass all the familiar places on your way in that you’ve known since you were a child. You’re not too far from the centre of town, and the bar Richard has invited you too is only about ten more minutes away, so you thank yourself for leaving the car behind because this is actually the perfect staggering distance.

               As you reach the bar, you stand outside for a moment and stare up at the flashing lights on the front wall. That makes it sounds very flashy; actually the lights aren’t meant to flash or flicker. They’re meant to be steady on, and a few of the letters aren’t working. You can already hear a band playing inside and you recognise the sounds instantly. It’s Feeling B. You make your way to the door and you’re stopped by the bouncer there.

                 “If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in. It’s already full inside.” He tells you, and you feel a sharp stab of disappointment. But something tells you Richard wouldn’t have invited you if he knew this was going to happen. Maybe he didn’t know what was going to happen? But having the bands on that list, surely he knew that it would be busy? You take this as a sign that you should probably go home. You feel a little relieved as you turn away, cross the road again because you hate clubs and bars like this. You hate the constant movement, the loud noises and most importantly you hate how hot it gets in there. You are about to step out into a lull in the traffic when you feel a hand grip your wrist.

               “Till!” calls a familiar voice from behind you, and you turn to see the familiar mop of blonde hair.

               “Oh, Richard! They said it was too busy in there!” you tell him, turning to shake his hand properly.

               “I put you on the list! I didn’t know your last name so you’re just ‘Till’ for now!” he laughs, turning back to the club, “Are you coming?”

               “Um, yeah… Okay.” You say, following him through and down the stairs to the bar, which was heaving with people. You recognised a familiar song playing from the band and you spied the guitarist of the band and know that Feeling B have taken to the stage. This is why the place is so busy. You watch from the stairs for a moment, at all the people in the crowd before the stage all jumping around, pushing each other down, kicking wildly at one another. There are arms being thrown around everywhere and you spot that there are only men dancing like this, the women in the bar are all crowded around the outside of this manic circle of punching, kicking and screaming. You look down and see Richard watching you for a moment and you smile.

               “Come on, let’s get some beers!” he calls to you over the music, and you hardly hear him because the band are so ear-shatteringly loud. You’re certain the volume of the speakers would be better suited to a stadium than in a room the size of your house, but this is the punk scene; loud, abrasive and aggressive. You head to the bar and signal for a beer, which is handed to you and one to Richard and no money is asked for. They just turn to serve the next customer. There is a brief lull in the music, to which Richard leans close to you and says “I organised this evening so I get all the free beer. Help yourself! They know you’re with us!” he tells you, and as he grins up at you the music kicks in again and there’s a push backwards into you from the dancefloor, and Richard is forced into you briefly by the crushing bodies. There’s not a lot either of you can do about this because you know that these people are moving away from the ever growing violence in the middle of the floor. You’ve been to gigs before where you know there’s an ever present danger of being punched in the face by some idiot wind-milling too hard. But still, the atmosphere of this place is some-what enjoyable, and while clubbing and loud venues aren’t really your cup of tea, you can’t help but want to join in. You’re being sucked into the atmosphere that the band are creating. You look over at Richard and he grips your wrist once more. You can’t help but notice how tight his grip is; very strong hands.

               You don’t so much follow Richard as much as he drags you through a tunnel like hallway to a much quieter room where there are very few people and you feel relieved at this. It’s as if he sensed that you hate large crowds and loud noises. You look at the people sitting around the room drinking and you don’t really recognise anyone and then he finally lets go of your arm, turning to look at you. You take a moment to properly look at him. He looks a lot older than he probably is. As he looks around the room, talking to someone a little away from the pair of you, you take a moment to really look at him and to really take him in. He’s only a little shorter than yourself, but he has very broad shoulders and he is quite muscular. You laugh internally to yourself, because your mother’s words ring clear in your head then; _”All you Schwerin men are the same!”_

               His blonde hair is tied back and has quite tanned skin. You assume then that he must work outside a lot, because even in the cold weather your skin can become weathered. But his skin is perfect, you notice. There are no scars or spots marring his skin at all. It looks so smooth that you just want to reach out and touch it, but you become instantly conscious of your own pock-marked skin. You don’t know where you inherited acne from, but you curse them then. While you only suffer the occasional red bump on your skin know, the scars of youth still live quite visibly on your cheeks and you really begin to think that Richard is quite beautiful. This is not as odd a thought you seem to think it is because as you observe the two girls he’s talking to, they seem to be staring at him in that loved-up-teenager-y way you recognise as never having received yourself. You don’t think even Nele’s mother ever looked at you with as much affection as these girls were bestowing upon Richard and you were certain they didn’t know him very well (probably as much as you knew him, if not less).

               He turns back to you and has a large smile on his face. His teeth are nice, you notice. How is it fair that he can look like this? You try to bury those feelings of inadequacy for a while and down your beer, placing the bottle down on the table.

               “I’m glad you came!” he tells you, nodding to some seats for the two of you to sit at and talk. You can hear the band still going in the other room and you could be wrong but you’re certain they’re getting louder.

               “I’m glad I’m here too.” You say to him, smiling at him.

               “You missed my band! We were on right before this lot!” he tells you, and that explains the strength in his hands. You keep inspecting him. You’re trying to get to grips with him and you’re trying to understand why he’s invited you here and what he expects from you. All of a sudden a small group of girls come falling into the room from the main bar and are laughing so loud it sounds as if a gaggle of harpies have joined you there. You look around to see them and sigh. But you notice that the band seemed to have stopped and there is music being pumped over the speakers, a lot quieter than the band seemed to be. “Oh! Paul will be through soon! It’d be cool for you to meet him!” Richard tells you, and you can see the child like excitement in his face.

               “What sort of music does your band play?!” You ask him, and at this question, his entire face lights up. It seems you’ve found a spot of passion in him for discussion. As he begins reeling off the influences he and his band have, you notice some more little things about his character. His voice is like silk, which is surprising considering he smokes, but then he’s young and the cigarettes haven’t begun their damage on his vocal chords. He is incredibly gestural as he speaks, hands moving all over the place as he explains the influences of Kiss on his current band.

               “I really enjoy Kiss’ music. And Deep Purple.” You tell him, “I managed to get one of their records. It’s still at home somewhere!” And at that, you think his eyes are going to pop out of his head they grow so wide.

               “How did you manage to get hold of that?!” He asks, leaning into you. “It’s impossible! I’ve been trying to get their records for years!” He explains, and he shifts his chair closer to you. You can smell the typical young-man aftershave on him.

               “One of my customers had a cousin who managed to get a load of records imported from America.” You tell him.

               “Customers?” he asks, frowning inquisitively, “What do you do?”

               “I weave baskets.” You tell him, “I have a studio at my house where I weave them and sell them on.” You explain.

               He stares at you for a moment, the frown stull furrowing his brow, almost knitting them together. Then he erupts into this beautiful laughter, and you realise it is at your expense but you’re not as offended as you probably should be. His laughter is like music, and it rings beautifully, comfortably, in your ears.

               “Basket weaving?” He repeats, more of a question than a statement. “You don’t look the type…” he laughs, wiping his eyes.

               “What do you mean I don’t look the type?”

               “Well, you’re just… so…” Richard stops himself for a moment and stares you up and down. “You’re just so… Masculine. You don’t look the type to weave baskets.”

               You frown slightly, unable to supress the laugh which bubbles up from your chest. “Well it brings in money to put food in my daughter’s mouth so it’s not that bad.” You tell him, looking at your watch. “It’s getting late.” You say, “I should get back.” Just as you say this, the band who’d been on the stage came careering through the door, surrounded by a gaggle of young women. You take a moment to inspect each one of them and can’t help but smile. They’re all a little odd, their singer appearing to be much, much older than the others. The smallest, blondest of the band comes over to Richard and pulls him into a tight hug. You observe him, and the way he is dressed makes him look like some kind of pirate-punk and you feel a smile pulling at your lips. As you look up at his face you see that he has the cheeriest smile you’ve ever seen. His entire face lights up every time he grins, but he is also terribly thin. You look over and see the other blonde member of the band, the keyboardist, and see that he is much the same, except a lot taller.

               “Till! This is Paul Landers! Paul, Till…” he stops, frowning at you, “Sorry, I don’t know your last name!”

               “Lindemann.” You say, standing and offering your hand to the shorter man.

               “It’s nice to meet you!” Paul smiles, and for such a small men, you note that he has a mighty big handshake. “Richard’s told me all about you! Another frequenter of the ducks in the park, eh?” Paul grins, and this sets worry in the pit of your stomach.

               “Is that some kind of euphemism?” You ask, slowly withdrawing your hand.

               “No, not at all. It’s just we seem to have found many musicians sitting in that spot feeding the ducks. Maybe there’s some kind of correlation between talented musicians and feeding ducks?” he says softly. There is a bark from the oldest man in the band, and Paul almost jumps to attention, snapping around quickly. “Well I’ll be back in a moment, Aljosha needs me.” He tells you both, turning and heading back to the older man quickly. Till didn’t watch for long, but saw enough to tell him that there may have been something odd going on between the members of the band. He looked back at Richard as the younger man sat down.

               “He’s a guitarist, as am I.” he tells you, sipping at the dregs of his beer.

               “That’s cool.” You say, “I play drums in a band but it’s nothing serious. And a bit of bass too.”

               “We should start a band sometime! At least a quick jam session together!” He exclaims, grinning widely at you, “And we should get Paul involved! That would be so cool!”

               “Well we built a kind of studio in my house so you guys are welcome to come to me if you want to.” You offer quite out of nowhere. It surprises yourself, actually, that you’re inviting almost complete strangers to come to your house and spend some time in the studio you’d built with some other friends. Regardless, you think actually it’s quite a good idea. Maybe this is a good thing for you. New friends to lift your moods. Maybe that’d shut your father up altogether.

               “Really?” His excitement makes him seem so much younger than he is. “We can use it? That’d be amazing!”

               “I guess so, yeah.” At that, Paul comes back to you both and settles himself down in a seat with you.

               “So, what’s happening?” he asks, sipping his beer.

               “Wanna come for a jam session with Till and I when you’re free next?” Richard asks, “He was just telling me about the studio he’d built at his house.”

               “A studio? Really?!” Paul asks, his eyes growing wide, his smile even wider.

               “It’s really not that impressive. It’s just a small space for doing some recording…”

               “It’s better than nothing!” Paul smiles, holding up his beer bottle. The two clink glasses and you feel a little awkward as you don’t have a drink in your hand.

               “Anyway, I had better go.” You tell them, slowly getting to your feet. As you do so, the older man from the band shoves a drink into your hand.

               By the time you eventually stagger home, considerably more drunk than you thought you would be. You look to your right and Richard is staggering back with you, as he explained that he was too far from home and didn’t have anywhere to stay. You both saw Paul and his band off and you both decided to stagger your way home. As you reach the door, it takes you a few attempts to unlock it, and you giggle to yourself as you do so, Richard laughing at you as well as he attempts to take the keys from you, as if he could do a better job than you could. You both laugh, almost falling down with laughter as he bashes his head on the door falling forward to get the key in. You’re both a mess, and your brain has that beautifully warm, fuzzy feeling cuddling it tightly. You’re ready for sleep.

               You finally get the door open and you stagger inside, the two of you collapsing on the sofa from collective exhaustion from your efforts at opening the door. You’re still laughing and you’re surprised that he didn’t cut himself or smash the glass in the door as he attempted to open it. He sits next to you, and even in your drunken state, you believe that he is quite beautiful. You’ve decided, and you’ve decided that it isn’t fair that he looks like this.

               “You’re fucking pissed as a fart.” He says to you, giggling to himself.

               “Pot, kettle. Kettle, pot.” You laugh, unable to hold it back. You watch him settle back against the sofa and his eyes closed. You are tempted to get yourself up the stairs and to your own bed, but you’re quite warm next to him. You reach around and pull a couple of blankets from the back of the sofa to drape over the two of you so you don’t get too cold in the early hours of the morning. You slowly drift off to sleep there, a smile on your face. You’ve missed being this close to someone.

               When you wake the next morning, the first thing that hits you (and it hits you hard) is a blinding headache and you curse yourself because your drunk self always thinks tequila is a good idea but it never is, and not in the quantities you two were drinking it in. You know you were drinking tequila because you can smell it on yourself. Tequila doesn’t get out of your system through peeing like normal alcohol; its exit strategy is through your skin. You’ve got to sweat it out. You groan softly, but then become aware of a weight lying on top of you and you wonder if your mother had come back early and dropped Nele off and the baby was lying on top of you. But you begin to see unfamiliar blonde hair and you start to panic, but you soon settle as you remember who is with you. And it seems, in the night, you both manoeuvred yourselves so you were lying together under one blanket. He’s resting his head against your chest and he’s wrapping you both in the heaviest of the blankets you’d found the night before. You lie there for a moment, just staring down at him and you admit to yourself that you’ve never been more comfortable in your whole life than you were sleeping with him. You’d missed just lying and cuddling someone, and at first it unnerves you that you feel so at ease and comfortable with this man. But then it doesn’t bother you. You’re secure enough in your heterosexuality to know that this means nothing. He just happens to be a very handsome man with whom you have shared a bed and nothing more. It quelled your loneliness for a few hours and that’s all it is; a dulling of the ache of isolation.

               He begins to stir and you make sure you’re lying perfectly still as to not disturb him. He settles again, and you just watch him. You really look at him up close. His skin really is perfect. You can’t get over it.

               You feel a pain in your neck from lying so awkwardly on the sofa. You look over him and he looks perfectly comfortable. You take the opportunity to just enjoy the comfort of lying with another person. That’s all you need to cure this dreaded hangover of yours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably wildly inaccurate. I apologise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Till saves Richard's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have attempted to remain respectful in my depictions of relatives to the members of this band and in no way mean any insult to them. There is no basis for this happening in reality and I mean no offence caused within this chapter.

                There’s a small possibility that you may need more than just lying with another person to get over a hangover. You know this now, as you’ve been lying underneath Richard for the best part of an hour and you now think that maybe a shower and some food might make you feel more human and less like this hangover’s bitch.

                You look down at the mass of blonde hair and pale skin lying top of you and you feel slightly less lonely for the first time since Nele was born. Even when you were with Nele’s mother, you felt inexplicably lonely. But being here with almost a complete stranger, it makes it difficult for you to believe that you’d feel this way about anyone, let alone another man. You slowly and carefully manoeuvre yourself out of your position as human pillow and stand yourself up, looking down at him still asleep. You’ve become somewhat of an expert in moving people who are asleep without waking them since moving with Nele is somewhat of a challenge at all times. You make sure he’s well covered in the blanket and tuck him in so that he doesn’t get cold before you wander around the kitchen, looking for something to eat, still in yesterday’s clothes. But you don’t feel bad about that at all, in fact it’s the first time you’ve had a proper night out like that in a long time. You decide to leave Richard to sleep, and to have a shower and to make yourself feel more like a human than you currently do. With every step up the stairs to the bathroom, your head is pounding. How much tequila exactly did you drink last night? You always remind yourself before you leave the house to leave Tequila alone, because everyone know that she is a cruel mistress with no sympathy for anyone’s morning and will make you bedbound for an entire day. Yet once you begin drinking, there’s no way you can say no to one, or ten, shots of the golden liquor.

                After finally dragging yourself up the stairs, you make your way to the bathroom, you undress yourself, and you spend some time standing under the hot water, just letting it wash over you. You need to wash the smell of tequila from your body because it’s fucking disgusting. As the hot water cleanses you, you think about the man lying downstairs on your couch and how you had come to appreciate his friendship at this moment. You try to remember exactly what had happened the night before but your memory is foggy with alcohol and you’re not certain what you two had been discussing with the short, blonde man whose name was missing from your mind. You cleanse yourself of the night before and you find glitter still attached to the skin on your hands and arms that you’re not sure who it belongs to. You hope it belonged to one of those girls who was surrounding the three of you the night before, but you think that it might possibly belong to Richard because his skin seems to sparkle in a terribly funny way that it shouldn’t. You can also smell the cheap aftershave (the only aftershave you know is readily available in Eastern Germany) Richard wears and usually it’s quite nice, but now that you’re exhausted and hungover it is making you feel a little sick. You scrub your skin down, making it smell of some fancy men’s shower gel your mother bought you to try and cheer you up but it didn’t work. She always buys you strange gifts in an attempt to make you feel better. She agrees with your father that you probably are suffering from depression but you’d never tell either of them that they might well be correct.

                Sighing softly at the thought, you wash your hair and you make yourself feel more human before stepping out to wrap a towel around your waist. You take a small hand towel and wipe the mirror of the condensation from your shower. You spend a moment looking over yourself, leaning in close to look at your face in close detail. You look over your skin, and the small scars that mar your face. You curse your past self for allowing acne to develop in your skin and not taking better care to resolve it in your youth. You spent your whole life being somewhat athletic and for didn’t have a face which matched your personality or your body (in your honest opinion of yourself). You examine every small dip in your skin, every visible pore, every small scar from popped spots. You hate looking at yourself in detail, but lying so close to Richard, and seeing how perfect his skin is, it makes you want to look at yourself and wonder how someone can be so perfect, and you wonder how that could possibly be fair when you look the way that you do. You stand back and look at yourself and you allow your mind to be okay with what it sees. You have the odd scar on your abdomen from your school days, but you managed to retain your muscle mass from your swimming days. You still enjoy the occasional swim in the lake, as it keeps you alive, and you love the feeling of cold, cold water rushing over you as you first step into the lake. You look over yourself and sigh, running your hands over your stomach. It rumbles under your hands as the first wave of hangover munchies hits you. You decide to go and change yourself and make some food.

                Wandering back downstairs, pulling a t-shirt over your head, you turn to the living room, you see a mass of blonde hair poking out from under a blanket wrapped around an angelic face.

                “Good morning!” You say in a somewhat cheery manner, because you feel better now that you’ve had a shower, though you know that he doesn’t feel good at all. He merely groans in response, curling back up in the cushions on the sofa and he pulls the blankets tighter around himself. “Do you want some food?” You ask him, and he groans once more. “Fried eggs on toast?” You ask, “Strong black coffee? Lots of sugar?” He slowly sits himself up and follows you into the kitchen. His eyes aren’t properly open but you know he’s just as hungover as you are, if not worse. “Want to have a shower while I make some food?” You offer, and he shakes his head in negative. “Okay then, take a seat.”

                He puts his head down on the table, covered with the blanket and he sits for a moment in absolute silence. You begin sorting out some break to toast and some eggs to fry and you find some cold meats in the fridge that you set out on a plate and put down on the table. You begin making the coffee and the smell almost brings him back from the dead. He sits up and unwraps his head from the blanket, looking over at you.

                “How much tequila did we drink?” he croaks out, patting his pockets down before finding his cigarettes. He pops one between his lips and he moves it from one side of his mouth to the other in a move which you think is so smooth that he must have practiced it a thousand times. You grab the lighter from the counter and you light his cigarette for him. “Thank you.” He says softly.

                “You definitely had more than I did…” You tell Richard, putting a large cup of coffee down in front of him. “Here. Now you drink that. It’ll make you feel better.” You tell him, going back to cooking some food. You look at the time and sigh softly, knowing that your mother will be home soon to bring Nele back to you. “You might get to spend some time with Nele if you’re still here.” You tell him, moving an egg around in a pan to cook it a little faster. You leave it alone and butter some toast, watching him for a moment. He’s sitting perfectly still, staring down at the cup of coffee on the table in front of him, cigarette burning down in his fingers which rests against the table. He is shivering a little, hangover sweats glistening on his skin. You put a plate of food in front of him, and it breaks his concentration on the cup.

                “Thank you.” He mumbles to you, slowly and carefully picking up his knife and fork. He breaks a small piece of toast from the bread and groans softly. “Jesus Christ. Why does food always taste so fucking good when you’re hungover?” He says to you, digging into the food. You reach over and take a cigarette and sit back with your coffee watching him. As he speaks to you about his band and his friendship with someone called Paul Landers, you can’t help but feel a little amused.

                “Wait, who’s Paul Landers?” You interrupt, taking a large sip of your coffee.

                “Oh, you know, the blonde guy from last night?” He says, “You know? The guitarist from the loudest band ever…” He grins. You can’t help but smile as you watch him speak. He’s so gestural but it’s so entertaining. You’ve yet to meet a person who uses their hands so much when they speak as he does. You watch him waving a piece of ham with some toast attached to it in one hand and his cup of coffee in the other one and he’s enthusiastically talking about this side project he’s been doing with Paul that is kind of secret because the old one in Feeling B doesn’t like Paul doing other music projects. He’s telling you all about this gig that the two of them have planned and how much he’d like you to be there. You can’t help but smile because he seems so young in this moment. His face is a lot more awake than he was earlier, and his eyes are so bright with enthusiasm it’s beautiful. You watch him speaking, and he’s speaking really fast about this new riff he’s worked out on the guitar and he’s so excited about it that you can’t help but get wrapped up in his enthusiasm. You sip your coffee as he speaks, and you catch sight of the clock and notice that he’s been talking for seven minutes straight. He stops himself a moment, looking at you. He puts his knife and fork down and looks down into his lap, sighing softly. “Sorry, I’ve been talking for so long.” He says softly, sipping his coffee to quieten himself.

                “No, no… You’re okay.” You tell him, laughing softly as you rearrange yourself in your chair. “It’s cute.” You laugh, suddenly aware that you’ve said something stupid. Cute? Cute is such a stupid word to use to describe him. He stares at you for a moment and you can feel your face beginning to blush.

                “Cute?” He begins to laugh, shovelling another forkful of now cold eggs and ham. “Cute isn’t a word I’ve ever thought about myself being…” He laughs, settling down, finishing his breakfast.

                “It’s always nice listening to people discussing what they’re enthusiastic about…” You tell him, getting up to clear the plates away and wash up. You just need to move in order to make yourself feel less awkward than before. The act of movement makes you feel a little better, and you begin filling the sink with clean, hot water.

                “We’re a bit stuck on a drummer though.” He tells you, “We’re a little stuck because he, you know, is a bit of a dick.” And he gets up to help you wash up.

 

* * *

 

 

                Nele rests against your chest as you flick through the pages of a book that’s familiar to you. It’s a book of poetry your mother gave to you for your last birthday. You think back to your time with Richard and Paul at the club a few weeks before. You think about the amount of tequila consumed at the club and it makes you feel a little sick, and you never wish to drink that much liquor again. You think back to the night watching Paul’s band and it feels like it was only a few days ago, but in reality it’s been a few weeks since you spent any amount of time with Richard and it makes you a little uneasy. He’s called you a few times since then to chat but it’s only been fleeting phone calls because you’ve been busy with other things. You slowly begin to feel uneasy because you feel like he’s leaving you. And then you regret feeling like friends are more important than having Nele here with you, safe and sound. You begin to think about her mother, and where she might be and you feel terrified that Nele might never see her mother again but you know that’s not the case, deep down. You want to make yourself feel better by looking down on your daughter and relishing in the unconditional love that you get from her. She’s everything you need in your life, and you know that. As you read over the words on the page as the phone beside you begins to ring. You sigh deeply, carefully reaching over to pick up the receiver.

                “Hallo?”

_”Till, it’s me. I know it’s late in the day but I’d really like to see Nele.”_

                You look down at the sleeping baby in your arms and sigh softly. Her mother sounds as though she’s been walking somewhere quickly.

                “You’re already on your way, aren’t you?”

_“Well, yes. I thought you might like a break or something from Nele.”_

                “How far are you?” you ask her, gently running your fingers over Nele’s hair, watching her sleep. “She’s asleep right now.” You explain.

 _”You sound like you need to get out of the house”_ she tells you, and you kind of agree but you’ve got no reason to leave. You could go down to a bar and drink for a while, and take a book with you but ultimately you really want to stay here with Nele.

                “I don’t,” you tell her, “but you’re close, right? So fine. See you soon.” You say, hanging up. You don’t like people arriving at your house, unannounced. You know that she’s on her way, and that this might be the last time you see her for a while, but you’d never stop her from seeing her own daughter. She took some time away to gather her thoughts, hopefully now she could begin to see Nele regularly. You know this has been stressful on her so you’re more than happy to make things easy. Not ten minutes later, there’s a knock on your front door and you look down at Nele. “It’s open!” you call, almost quietly and Nele jumps softly against your chest before she snuffled herself back to sleep quietly. You look up to see her mother.

                “She looks peaceful.” She says softly, moving towards you.

                “Do you want to take her? She’s a fairly heavy sleeper.” You ask, putting your book down.

                Her mother leans down and carefully takes her daughter, cuddling her close in her arms. You watch as Nele turn into her mother’s chest and sigh contentedly in her sleep. You get to your feet and offer your ex-wife your chair. “Get comfortable. You’re not moving until she wakes…” You smile, helping her sit down. “Do you want a drink?”

                “No, I’m okay,” she tells you, not looking up from her daughter.

                Just then the phone rings once more, and you move to answer quickly.

                “Hallo?”

_”Till, It’s me! Richard Z Kruspe I’m so glad you’re home!”_

                You laugh to yourself as he tells you his entire name despite knowing that you’re aware of who he is. “Richard? Are you okay?”

_”Our drummer, you know I was telling you about him the other day and he’s a bit of a dick and he’s been messing us around recently?”_

                “Yes, Richard, I know of him. Tell me what you want.”

_”Oh, right! Well he’s ditched us and we’re without a drummer for our gig tonight can you cover us?”_

                "I’ve got Nele…”

                “Go out! You spend far too much time at home, Till. I’ll stay here with her.” She insists, kissing the top of your daughter’s head.

_”Please Till. We need you!”_

                “I can’t… I’m sorry I need to stay here.”

                “Go. Out.” She demands, frowning up at you. “Go out.” You sigh and look at the sleeping baby in her arms. “We’ll be fine here. Go out.”

                You look over her once more before putting the phone back to your ear. “Fine, where do I need to go. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

* * *

 

                Standing outside the club, you sigh to yourself. You can’t stop thinking about Nele on her own, but you know you need to relax because she’s with her mother and she’ll be fine. You need to stop being such a control freak. You make your way inside and your name is on the list once more, under “the mysterious Lindemann” and you’re lead down to the backstage area where he and Paul are sitting and waiting. You watch him get to his feet and walk towards you, wrapping you in a bear hug.

                “Till! You’ve saved our lives! Thank God you’re here!” he sighs, grinning as he presses a kiss to your cheek and smiles at you. You can smell the alcohol on him already and he looks a little drunk. “We thought we’d have to cancel!” he grins and you shake hands with Paul and look around.

                “No Aljoscha?” You ask Paul.

                “No. And shush up. You can’t tell anyone I’m here.” He tells you and hands you a shot of tequila, winking in your direction as he clinks the small shot glass with you. You check your watch and feel a little sick because it’s still so early and you’ve been at the place for ten minutes and all you want to do is go home. You’re okay when she’s left with your mother but you’re unsure about leaving her with her own mother which is terrible of you to think that and now the thoughts are racing through your mind too fast and you can’t focus. You down the shot of tequila and the thoughts slow down a fraction but unfortunately it’s not enough to make you feel better. You know you shouldn’t feel terrible about leaving Nele with her mother but it’s the first time you’ve really heard from her since she left and you’ve unsure as to how she would react being left alone when Nele begins getting restless and worked up. But you don’t have time to entertain any other ideas about Nele and her mother because another shot of tequila is being shoved into your hand and they’re attempting to get you to sit down amongst a group of girls.

                You look down at the shot and throw it down your throat quickly and Paul nods at you and points to the drum set. You don’t really know what you’re doing but as much as you’ve seen before, it seems to be mostly made up between these two anyway, from what you’ve heard Richard tell you anyway. You know you’ll be okay, and that everything will be okay. The gig will be fine. Nele will be fine and on that note, you throw another shot down your neck and feel the nerves settling.

 

* * *

 

 

                Waking up in your own bed, in your pants with the sheets tangled around your hips when you’re uncertain of how you got there is one of the most terrifying feelings you’ve ever experienced, only seconded by the realisation that Nele may have been unattended all night because you were black out drunk the night before. You can taste and smell tequila and cigarettes on your person and you feel wholly sick, with a whacking headache to boot. You slowly turn your head and look at the clock on your bedside table and it’s half past ten in the morning. Then panic hits harder than before.

                “Nele?” You sit upright, feeling a sick and throw back the sheets, staggering over to look in her cot. She’s not there and then your panic makes you go blind with fear. “Nele?!” you call, stumbling down the stairs, almost falling until you’re confronted with Richard, sitting on the floor with your daughter, and you hear her giggling as he tickles her belly and all your fear and panic begins to subside. “Richard?” You say softly, slowly making your way further into the living room. “Are you guys okay?” You ask, staring in shock at him. “What are you doing here?”

                “Oh! Till! Morning! Nele is happily full of milk but you need to buy new powder…” he says softly, slowly beginning to move himself from the floor.

                “Where’s her mother?” You ask, then feeling panicked once more.

                “She stayed until I got you to bed and then handed me Nele and went home. She said she had a long way to go and had work this morning.” He explains and you feel a little sad for her. You collapse into a chair and you feel incredibly guilty.

                “Mein Gott Jesus in heaven. How fucking drunk was I?” You groan.

                “Well, it took us an hour and a half to get you home because you could hardly walk. And then I couldn’t really leave. You slept right through.”

                “Did she wake up?”

                “Once, but she was fine.” He laughs, holding Nele up as she grabs for you. “I didn’t really sleep because I was too worried about you vomiting in your sleep and dying.”

                You stare at him for a minute and reach over for your daughter. “Come on.” You say, kissing the top of her head. “Seriously. Are you okay?” You ask him.

                “Yeah, I’m fine. She’s good! Are you okay?”

                “Yes, fine. At least the gig was good!” You smile, feeling a little more relaxed now.

                “It was amazing.” He laughs, getting to his feet. “But I’m still impressed with the amount of alcohol you consumed in such a short amount of time!” he laughs, sitting himself down in a chair. You cuddle Nele close to you and spend a moment watching Richard. He seems so awake and alive as he sits here in your house after looking after both you and Nele. In fact, thinking about it, for someone so young, he is downright amazing. Nele looks so happy, and seemed incredibly comfortable with Richard. She rarely reacts to people like that.

                “Can you hold her a moment?” You say softly, “I’m going to make some coffee…”

                He takes her from you and she grabs for his face, and you watch him play with her for a moment. You see her smiling up at him and giggling to the sound of his voice and it makes you laugh to yourself because you never imagined such a person to be so good with children. He’s still so young and you remember that if anyone had handed you a child when you were nineteen then you’d have handed it straight back without any knowledge of how to handle a child. But here he is, cooing over Nele, making her feel as though she’s the most special person in the room and it warms your heart to see. It’s clear, from this one morning of them playing together that she adores him, and you think you yourself that maybe you would like to keep him around. He makes you feel better and a lot less lonely, and it keeps Nele happy. Maybe this is good for you. You’ve never heard her laughing like this before with anyone other than you and you feel a little hopeful for the first time in a long time because Nele’s mother seemed to show some interest in being in your life with Nele and now with Richard. And while you’ve only known him a very short while in comparison to some of your friendships, you feel as though everything feels like it’s finally coming together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to say firstly that there is absolutely no way that I am insinuating that Nele's mother was not capable of looking after her and I hope that this wasn't what you drew from this. I attempted to remain respectful, and as I couldn't find much information on Till's seven years as a single father, I assumed that it was like most custodies in that the other parent would take the child for a certain amount of time. Anything I have written is purely speculation and there is no offence intended.
> 
> I also need to thank [Lindefann](http://lindefann.tumblr.com/) for proofreading this for my tired brain and helping me to make this less repetitive and more entertaining.


	4. Chapter 4

                It is 1989 and you are twenty-six years old. You stand at around six feet tall and you are a healthy weight for your size. You are intelligent, sharp-witted and kind and you have a small circle of intimate friends that you can count on one hand. You have a three-year-old daughter who is now walking confidently and whose speech is coming along perfectly. You are a proud father and you are a lot more confident in yourself and your ability to look after a child on your own. It has gotten easier seeing as Nele’s mother is now a constant presence in her daughter’s life and you get every other weekend to yourself to spend with your friends. You have gotten used to Richard being away since he moved to East Berlin to be closer to his musical projects but he comes back to see you often, and you enjoy going to Berlin to see him when Nele’s mother takes her for a few days.

                You are staying at Richard’s apartment. You’ve taken a week from working to spend time in Berlin and you’ve given Nele to her mother for this time as you were beginning to feel wholly overwhelmed by everything that was going on. You needed a break, and while Berlin probably wasn’t the best place for a relaxing break, you still feel more at ease now than you did at home. Maybe it’s just the change of scenery.  
Things in Germany have been rather unsettled for a while now, and you know that it is imperative that you keep yourself safe from harm. You have a daughter now and she is your number one priority at all times now. You would like, in a perfect world, to be safe and to keep your loved ones safe at all times but that isn’t possible.  
You look out of the window and down at the street and notice a lot of people heading either into the buildings, almost running to hide, and then others running down the street, chanting something angrily that you can’t quite make out. The political climate is hot at the moment and you decide to stay inside and wait for Richard to come home, saying a small prayer that he’s safe.

                There’s a worry in the back of your mind that something terrible is going to happen, and you’re unclear as to what you’re going to do. You take another look from the window and see the armoured cars you recognise as Stasi heading in the same direction as the large crowd had not five minutes earlier. All of a sudden, you wish you had your daughter with you, to hold her close to you and tell her that everything is going to be okay, but in this moment, you are terrified and you’re not sure why.

 

* * *

 

                Six days you wait. Six days you sit in his home, surrounded by his possessions and his friends (well, Paul and Flake are your friends too, but still) and you wait. You’ve heard nothing. You know nothing. You have called home to your mother and spoken to Nele on the phone and explained to her in your calmest tone that Vatti is fine and he’ll be home soon. But you have to wait. You just need to know that he is okay. You heard that lots of arrests took place at a demonstration earlier in the week, but you haven’t heard that there were any deaths. Not that they’d tell you that anyway. You’re aware of the police state you live in, and you know that you need to follow the rules or life will become difficult. And you just have far too much to lose at this time in your life.

                As you think about this, there’s a thud against the door, and a soft sob on the other side. You feel sick to your stomach as you get to your feet, racing to the door as quickly as your legs will carry you and you pull it open. The sight of him in front of you is horrifying. He looks exhausted, battered and bruised. He has bruises to his face, marring that perfect skin you’ve admired more often than not. He’s almost bent double, and he looks in pain with every movement he makes. You catch him before he falls into the apartment, putting his arm over your shoulder. You move him into the living room and put him down on the sofa.

                “Richard, where have you been?”

  
                Your first question of many running around your mind. He can’t bring himself to look at you and you can tell he’s close to tears because he has the same look on his face that Nele has when she is deep in thought about something and it is upsetting her. You take the opportunity to lift his chin, forcing him to look at you.  
“What happened?” you ask very calmly, holding his hand tightly in yours. “Tell me where you’ve been.” The tranquillity in your voice is surprising you considering how frightened you feel at this moment.

                “I have to leave Berlin,” he says softly, and the first wave of tears begin to spill down his cheeks.

                “Well, come back to Schwerin with me. You can stay with us until you get back on your feet,” you explain, gently rubbing your hand over his back to soothe him, but he flinches, and the extent of what has happened begins to reveal itself.

                “You don’t understand. I need to leave the East. I can’t stay here any longer. They’ll…they’ll kill me,” he tells you, slowly pulling himself to his feet. He begins hunting around the place, searching for something but struggles through the tears in his eyes.

                “Richard, stop. What has happened? You can’t leave! It’s too dangerous!”  
You attempt to reason with him. You don’t know of anyone who has successfully made it to the West. You don’t know anyone who’s been mad enough to try.

                “Come with me, Till. Please.”

                There’s a look in his eyes then of genuine hope that you, Till Lindemann, will be willing and able to uproot your whole life and go with him to the West. You can only stare back in horror. On one hand, you want so badly to go with him. You want to be free in the West just like everybody else, but then you think of Nele, and your mother, and your other friends at home, and your family, your sister, your farm house, everything.

                “I can’t,” you say quietly, looking at him. “I can’t leave, Richard. What about Nele? I can’t just leave with her, or without her! I can’t. A-and you can’t either, Richard,” you tell him sternly, hoping that if you put on your ‘Vatti-voice’ then he might listen to you.

                “It’s too dangerous, Richard, I won’t allow it.”

                He just shakes his head and laughs, clutching a few photographs in his hand and a clean pair of pants.

                “I am leaving,” he tells you so matter-of-factly that you cannot deny his mind is made up. “I’m leaving. I’ll try and get word to you when I get there that I’m safe,” he says, sighing softly. He moves towards you, and he stands very close a moment, and the feeling of apprehension is mutual between you both.

                “Please don’t go,” you say one last time, hoping that he will listen, hoping that he will put down this idea of the West and stay with you. “Please. I can keep you safe.”

                “No one can,” he says quietly, before shoving a few more things into a bag, which he throws onto his back. “I hope to see you again soon, Till.”  
He smiles, but it’s not like his normal smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Really, it’s something of defeat.  
“Please, take what you want. Lock the door when you leave,” he says, turning on his heels.  
He pulls the door open before turning back to look at you. You feel your heart beginning to break, something you never imagined feeling right now. No one ever tells you that platonic relationship break-ups hurt the most. He’s staring at you, inviting you to take up his offer once more before he leaves for good. You can only stare at him, silently begging him not to leave.  
“Goodbye, Till. See you again soon,” he tells you and then the door is closed.

                Everything feels incredibly cold in that moment. All the heat that had previously been in the room had dissipated with his exit; every ounce of warmth that clung to your skin feels ice cold. You watch the door for God knows how long and you stare and you wish and you pray that he’ll come back through it at any moment. You send up bargains and promises to a God you aren’t sure exists, but you were brought up better than that. You watch that door until it gets dark and you hope the fear will catch him and bring him back to you. How can you miss someone so much? You ask yourself how you can feel this way about a person you weren’t remotely romantically involved with. The heartache is worse now than when you finally signed the divorce papers. You feel sick to your stomach and with that, all those feeling of inadequacy come crawling back to the front of your mind, reminding you of their presence. You weren’t enough to keep him here. You weren’t enough for him to stay.

_You weren’t enough for him to love._

                You pack up your things quickly and take yourself back home to your daughter. You need to ground yourself quickly. You need to busy yourself with work and taking care of Nele.

                “ _He’ll be back,_ ” you tell yourself, over and over. He hasn’t left you for good. He’s not left forever and he hasn’t died. He’s just leaving for a little while until he feels safe.

 

* * *

 

                It has been two and a half weeks since he left for the West.

                You are at home with your daughter and that feeling of emptiness and abandonment hasn’t yet left you. You still feel a little cold and have closed yourself off to most people, including your mother, who has told your father, who you had closed yourself off to anyway. As your father said on the phone to you, “At least your mother now knows how I feel.”

                There aren’t a lot of things happening at the moment that are making you feel better about this current predicament. You’re a little stuck and you feel trapped. You aren’t sure why, but any ounce of freedom you had previously felt had left when Richard fled for the West. You’ve begun to realise things about yourself in his absence and you’re not entirely comfortable with it. Richard was a symbol of all things going perfectly for you; your daughter developing fast and becoming quite the young lady; her mother was now a consistent presence in her life, taking some of the pressure from you; business in basket weaving was picking up and you are bringing home enough money now to give small gifts to your daughter, and the writer’s block you’d felt for a long time seemed to have lifted itself from your shoulders and you were able to write beautiful poetry for your daughter.

                But that muse, that presence, has gone and Richard had been replaced with the heavy burden of self-loathing and doubt. Surely, if your friendship with him had meant as much as he’d told you, then he would have stayed and allowed you to keep him safe. Surely, he would have gone back to Schwerin to keep himself from harm’s way? But no. He had told you that nothing could keep him safe, not even you. You feel useless. If you can’t protect him, how can you protect anyone? Maybe you should have gone with him? Maybe he was right, and fleeing to the West might have been what was best for Nele and yourself. Maybe the three of you could have been free together.

                You sigh to yourself and look to the window, seeing Nele wrapped up in her coat, hat, scarf and gloves, and that at least brings a smile to your face. You’ve let her out to the garden while you wash the dinner dishes, and she plays in the grass while the last of the light disappears into the horizon. You get yourself wrapped up too and head out to play with her. You know that Richard’s absence is upsetting her too, but she’s a sensitive girl, and you start to notice that she provides some kind of emotional stability for you.

                “Vatti!” she calls, “Come, quickly!” The tone of panic in her little voice makes your heart go cold, and you run towards her in the garden, picking her up.

                “What’s the matter, little one?” you ask, as you see tears bubbling at the waterline in her eyes. “What’s made you sad?”

                “There’s a bird, a baby one, there on the floor, Vatti. She’s hurt!” she tells you, and you look down and there it is, a small bird that is struggling to take flight.

                “There’s nothing we can do, Liebling,” you say, as Nele’s small, gloved hand slips into yours.

                “Please, Vatti. Can we fix her?”

  
                She looks up at you with the largest eyes and you feel your heart melting. You let go of her hand and bend down to take the small bird in your hands.

                “Come on, let’s get inside. I need you to go and get one of the shoeboxes from your wardrobe, okay? Do you understand, Nele?”

                “Yes, Vatti” she replies, and she runs to the house as quickly as she can, as you walk and carry the bird back to the house. You settle by the fire in the living room and Nele brings you an empty shoebox. “Do you want me to get something soft, Vatti?” she asks, and you can see she looks more hopeful now than she had before.  
“For her to lie on?”

                “Yes. Go and get one of my old t-shirts,” you tell her, and she runs off, shedding her coat, gloves, scarf and hat on the floor on her way. You look down at the bird, and she seems to still be alive, but her wing is broken. Nele comes back, panting from running around upstairs and hands you an old t-shirt. You fold it up and place it in the box, and then the bird on top of it.  
“Now, Nele. This is a one-time deal, okay? For the sake of this bird. One-time deal, do you understand?”

                “Yes, Vatti?”

                “Go into the freezer and get one of the ice lollies we usually save for Sundays. You need to eat it up because we need the stick to save the bird, okay?”  
The largest smile spreads across her small face and she wraps her arms around your neck, kissing your cheek. She laughs and runs off to the kitchen, and she brings back a strawberry lolly for you to open for her.

                “Not too fast, or you’ll get brain freeze,” you tell her, and she sits herself on the floor next to you and eats her lolly silently, save for the sounds of her smacking her lips from it.

                She finishes within ten minutes, handing you a clean wooden stick. You know you could have used some of the sticks from your studio, but you just felt this might lift her spirits a little more if the bird doesn’t make it.

                “Go and get me the first aid box, Nele. And be careful,” you tell her and she runs off to grab it.  
The bird lies perfectly still, looking around, taking in her surroundings. You watch the small bird for a moment, and then become determined that you won’t let this bird die without trying everything possible. You want to do this for her and make her happy, but you want to also do this for yourself, to prove that you can.

                Nele returns and hands you the first aid box, and you get to fixing the bird’s broken wing, patching it up and making it sit how it should. You keep the box by the fire to keep it warm and the evening is spent with the two of you curled up on the sofa watching a VHS you’d managed to get a hold of.

                When morning comes, you are surprised to find the bird hasn’t moved, and you become fearful that she has died in the night, but as you move closer, you see that she seems happy enough. You wrack your brain trying to think of when this bird might need to eat, and you get some bread from the kitchen, hoping that might be enough for now. With luck, she eats, and you know it’s silly to believe so, but the bird seems pleased with the food being offered.  
Nele comes down and spends the morning sitting in front of the bird, talking away to her and feeding her small bits of bread. You notice things about your daughter in this moment. She is such a kind, caring little girl and she is so sensitive to the needs of others. You begin to think about how she crawls up into your lap and hugs you without question when you’re feeling particularly down about the events of the last few weeks.  
She sits with you in the evening before bedtime and holds your hand as you read to her. You think about the things she’s said to you over the last few days and it breaks your heart a little. She has been extra attentive to you, telling you how much she loves you more often than she normally does and you realise that she knows. For one so young, she is incredibly wise and you cannot help but love her more than before, if that were even possible. You’ve not had much in your life to be proud of, you know that, but Nele is something that you helped to create and she is perfect. She is your proudest creation to date.

                Within a week, the bird seems happy enough to be flying around your living room and her wing seems to be fixed. Nele laughs as the bird flies around her, landing in her open hands to take some seeds that she’d bullied you into buying. The bird seems well enough, and you know that it’s time for the bird to migrate with the others and fly south for the winter. You know this will upset Nele, but she needs to understand that the bird needs to join her family for the winter, or she’ll die if she stays in Germany.  
Nele takes the news well, and the two of you carry the tiny bird outside to set her free. Nele holds your hand very tightly for a moment before she blows a kiss to the small bird as she says goodbye. She slowly opens the box fully and says a small farewell to the bird. The two of you stand in the cold and watch the bird fly away, watching her sit in a tree for a moment until she sees more birds flying south. Nele slowly slips her hand back into yours and moves a little closer to your leg.

                “Will she be okay, Vatti?” she asks, looking up at you. You know she’s upset, and she wanted to keep the bird forever, but you know that wasn’t possible.

                “She’ll be fine,” you tell her.  
  
                You know she’ll be fine, and now you know that you can fix things. You aren’t as useless as you felt a week ago. You feel so much more free now, and you know that Nele helped you to feel this way. You hate to disappoint your little girl, and therefore you had to do this. You might not have been able to help Richard, but you could help that bird, and that was enough for you.  
  
                “Nele?” you ask her, looking down. “How did you know that bird was a female?” you ask her.

                “It was in a book I read with Onkel Richard,” she tells you. “She doesn’t have the black band across her eyes like the males do,” she explains, smiling up at you. “Can we go and have some hot chocolate, please?”

                “Of course Liebling.”

  
                You turn to walk back inside with her with a heavy heart and a void left empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to a Nanceeward and Lindefann for for proofreading for me! You guys are absolute Angels!


	5. Chapter 5

                The radio is on as you in your studio when the news breaks. You hear a stunned silence take the shops around your studio and you feel a little sick to your stomach.

_”Have they really?”_

_”Did they just announce that? Really?”_

                You hear the disbelief in the voices outside your door before one of your neighbouring retailers pops their head around the door to see you.

                “Did you just hear that too or are we collectively imagining this?” She asks you, and she stares at you with wide eyes.

                “They’re tearing it down.” A voice over her shoulder confirms.

                The wall is falling.

* * *

                You are reeling. You’ve gathered your daughter and you’ve called Paul, letting him and Flake know you’ll be in Berlin as quickly as you can. You’ve been sucked up into the excitement, as much as you’d like to remain calm and stoic, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the hysteria of November 9th 1989. You have Nele, Your mother and your sister in your car as you hurtle down the Autobahn towards Berlin. The traffic is a nightmare. Everyone wants to be in Berlin for this monumental occasion, and you drove as fast as you could to get to the city. You’ve never wanted to see anything so badly in your life, and you feel so exhilarated.

                There’s never been an emotion like the one you are currently experiencing. You arrive at Paul’s apartment, which overlooks the wall, taking Nele upstairs with your mother and sister, for safety reasons. It’s quite violent out there, with people pushing and screaming and fighting one another in order to get close to the wall, to take a piece of history with them forever. You watch from Paul’s apartment, and when the excitement is almost too much for you to handle, your mother appears by the window next to you, telling you to go down and join the celebrations.

                “Go on, She’ll be safe here. We’ll wait for you.”

                You look over to Paul, who seemed doubly eager to get down into the crowd and the two of you take yourselves down with Flake to find your group of Berliner acquaintances. You fall into the crowd easily, the shouts of encouragement towards the men at the wall is making you dizzy with excitement. Up ahead you can see a man swinging a sledgehammer at the wall, hitting it over and over in quick succession. The people in the west have no idea how desperate the people in the east want to tear down this barrier. You take hold of Paul’s hand, and Flake grips yours, and Paul pulls you through the crowd close to the wall and you manage to grab a piece of the concrete. _You get to hold a piece of history in your hand_. You can’t stop laughing. You can feel tears coming to your eyes and you know that the umbrella of communism is beginning to disappear and the sun is metaphorically shining on you.

                The celebrations don’t end when the wall begins to be taken down by firemen and the police. There are chunks of the wall being picked up and carried away and you sit in amongst a large crowd of people, sipping champagne and eating bananas. You had, earlier in the day, made your way across the boarder to buy yourself a bag of gummy bears and you share them around the group you’re sat in. You feel so euphoric about this whole situation. You tell Paul that you’re thankful your daughter will be able to grow up in a unified Germany and not under the iron curtain. You feel relieved that you and your fellow east Germans are free finally. But there is one thing on your mind that you cannot seem to get past.

                As you sit, you think to yourself _“What if he crossed the boarder right now?”_ He could cross back into the east right now and you could live with him and be happy in the east, free of threats from the government. You could live together and there would be no issues with that. You’ve come to a few realisations about yourself while he’s been gone. You realise that his leaving tore a small piece of your heart and the fact that he’s been on your mind as much as he has suggests to you that maybe, quite possibly, there’s more to your relationship with him than just friendship. You think about how much time the two of you spent together in your comparably short friendship, and how close you became and how quickly it all happened. You think about him staying at your house, and the weekends you’d spent together, lazing around your living room, watching films and reading books with or without Nele. The two of you had become so close.

                Looking around, you try to see if you can spot that familiar shock of blonde dreads floating around in the crowds of people. But you have a terrible thought for a moment. You thought you’d never be able to forget what he looked like, but the more you think about it, there are shades of him leaving your memory, moment by moment. He might have only been gone a few weeks, but there is more gone of him than you knew before; those particular mannerisms in his speech; the gestural way he motions with his hands, and how they become more vigorous as he becomes excited; the small smirk that pulls at his lips as he jokes with Nele; that particular shade of blue in his eyes; that perfect shade between blonde and brown in his hair; the way his eyes grow dark when he’s about to get on stage; his voice. You long to hear his voice then. You feel so tired of not having him in your life.

                You find yourself sitting in a large crowd of people, in probably one of the biggest events in your nation’s history, and you feel incredibly alone. You miss him, plain and simple. You get to your feet and squeeze Paul’s shoulder, shake Flake’s hand and you make your way back to the apartment to collect your family to get home. You just want to be surrounded by familiar things. All this change is making you a little dizzy. You just want to take yourself home and curl up in your sheets that still have the scent of him clinging to them.

_You realise you’re falling in love with him_

* * *

                Nele plays at building up bricks and pushing the down in celebration of the wall falling. Your mother sits in your living room with her granddaughter and plays building high walls, helping Nele to build the strongest of walls so the fall is all the more satisfying. You can hear their laughter in the other room as Nele giggles at the crash of bricks on the carpeted floor. But all you can focus on is him. All you can think about is that void where Richard should be, playing with Nele and discussing current music with y our mother. You don’t feel like you can really celebrate because he’s not come back. He’s not come back to the east, and it worries you that you’ve not heard from him. Not letter, phone or carrier pigeon. You’ve no idea whether he’s dead or alive. You look to your daughter and you feel a little hopeful that she’s going to grow up in a better Germany than the one you grew up in, but you wish that Richard was here as a positive presence in her life as much as he was yours.

                She appears in the kitchen with her coat on and her scarf. She grins up at you and tells you that she’s going to the garden to play on her swings and that you should call her once her dinner is ready. You can’t help but laugh at this. She’s such a bright, beautiful girl and she always gives you more ways to be proud of her. You turn to look at your mother who is wrapping herself up in her coat and scarf.

                “Are you going on the swings too?” You ask her, laughing to yourself.

                “No, I’m going to get myself home. Your sister will be waiting for me there.” She tells you and you know she’s right. Your sister is still young enough to need her mother. You bid your goodbyes and walk your mother to her car. You put a few of her things in the boot and walk around to the driver’s side. “Till,” she says to you, “He’ll be back, you know that, don’t you?”

                “I know.” You say, but really you aren’t even convincing yourself that you believe that right now. You don’t think he will be home. You imagine he’s either not made it, or found a fantastic life in the west. Why would he want to come back to the east when he has all the freedom of the west? She takes your hand and squeezes it a moment, before she drives away. You turn then to look at Nele, watching her wave to her grandmother before she goes back to playing. You smile fondly as you watch her, remembering back to the day you and Richard constructed the swing set for Nele. She was so happy that she sat in Richard’s lap all evening and forced him under pain of death to read to her all evening. She’s a decisive little one; knowing what she wants and how she’s going to get it. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, and both of you know it. There’s no way you can ever say no to her. She just knows what to do in order to get what she wants.

                You head back inside and your house is silent, save for the sound of the crackling fire in the living room.

                You put some cut up pieces of Bratwurst onto a plastic plate with some potato salad and put that down on the table with a plastic cup filled with orange juice. This is followed by a larger porcelain plate with similar food on it, along with some salad and there are some bananas on the table too, a delicacy that your mother had picked up on her venture to the other side, as well as the open packet of Gummy Bears that you and Nele have been savouring since you bought them a few days before.

                “Nele! Dinner time.” You call to her, heading to stand in the doorway to watch her run into you. Through the window in your door you see a figure kneeling with your daughter. You begin to panic a little, and as you swing the door almost from its hinges, the figure stands. You instantly recognise him.

                “Hello Till.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only a short one but it's basically a filler chapter. I just wanted him to come back. I wanted him to come back and them to be happy. I JUST WANTED HIM TO COME BACK :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s cut his hair. It’s still blonde, but it looks good. He has it pushed back, and he has it combed neatly; short back and sides, a far cry from the mass of blonde, shaggy hair that graced his head previously._

                You don’t really know what to do with yourself. You can’t really do anything but stand and stare, looking at his face and then to your daughter’s, whose hand is gripping the other’s so tightly. She beams up at you before slowly letting go of the other’s hand and makes her way towards you, hugging your leg.

                “Vatti, he came home.” She tells you, and grins, before reaching up for you to pick her up. You do so, never taking your eyes from the other man, standing there in front of your house.

                “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he asks, laughing nervously, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. He’s cut his hair. It’s still blonde, but it looks good. He has it pushed back, and he has it combed neatly; short back and sides, a far cry from the mass of blonde, shaggy hair that graced his head previously. He looks a lot older, more mature, like he’s lost weight, probably through stress, anxiety and lack of nutrition. He looks tired, more than anything. And as you stand there staring at him, your first instinct is to move towards him and wrap your arms around him as tightly as you can. And you stay like this for the longest time holding him tightly, gripping Nele close between you and taking him in, allowing yourself to shed those tears you’d held in for so long.

                “I thought we’d never see you again.” You laugh a little, slowly pulling yourself further away from him. You keep him close to you still, holding onto his hand, making sure that he’s real.

                “I was only gone a few weeks Till. It’s not like I died.” He laughs, pressing a kiss to Nele’s cheek. “ I bought you a present, little one.” He tells her, opening up his bag to produce bags of sweeties they didn’t sell in the east. “All for you, huh?” he smiles, and she leaps out of your arms and into his.

                “Vatti was so sad when you left. I’m so glad you’re back Rischy” she smiles, and he puts her down on the ground.

                “Nele, your dinner is on the table,” you tell her, “If you eat it all up, we can open up one of these packets of sweets that Richard has brought, okay?”

                “Yes, vatti” She waits for a moment before she turns to head inside. “It better not be Bratwurst, vatti.” She calls, and it makes you laugh. You have to wipe the tears from your eyes once more before you pull him tightly into your arms; you just hold him close, unwilling to let him go. Richard looks up at you as you begin to move and he looks a little startled. You become conscious of the tears in your eyes, but you’re just so overjoyed that he’s home. You try to pull yourself together and hold it all in but it just isn’t possible. You just wanted him home so badly. You apologise awkwardly as you wipe at your face, Richard laughs nervously. He might have only been gone a few weeks, but it felt like a million years had passed. You feel everything starting to click into place again, and you feel that void closing in your chest. But you’re struck with fear that he may leave once more. Maybe he’s just back for a visit? What if he enjoyed living in the west? What if he doesn’t want to be here anymore, with you?

                “Till, can we go inside please? It’s freezing out here.” He breaks your train of thought. He slowly lets go of you and stares you straight in the face. “I’ve spent a long time outside.” You laugh nervously for a moment and the two of you make your way inside to sit with Nele and eat your dinner. You watch him, and the way he interacts with Nele, and she seems so contented that he’s there. She’s just happy being in his presence, and you appreciate having Nele as a daughter then, because she’s nothing like the nightmarish children you hear about the women in town talking about. She is such a good child, and you are so appreciative of her. Even as a baby, she rarely cried, and was so docile that you often weren’t sure if she was okay or not. You watch her with Richard, though, and you can’t help but smile. He’s home. All those feelings of doubt leave your mind for a brief moment and you feel calm. _He came back to you._

                The two of you get Nele ready for bed and Richard reads her a bedtime story, and you listen from downstairs as he acts out her favourite story and her giggling brings a smile to your face. You wait patiently for him to come downstairs, finishing the washing up. You have so many things you want to say to him. You have so many things rushing around in your mind, so many questions that need answering but you don’t want to bombard him when he’s only just arrived home. You keep reminding yourself that he was only gone a few weeks, and that he wasn’t gone for an entire lifetime. He was only gone a little while so there isn’t much, really, that he might have to tell you. He might not even want to talk about it. That worries you a little, because if he doesn’t want to talk, that means some pretty terrible things might have happened to him on his journey to West Berlin.

                He might never want to open up about it, and that makes you feel awkward, because while you’ve never been a man to be open with your feelings, all this has made you want to gush about every single emotion you’ve felt in his absence. But the more you think about it, the less you actually have to tell him. Nothing happened that was really significant while he was away, and the only thing significant enough to talk about is something he’d probably experienced first hand anyway. The only thing you have to tell him is that you’ve missed him greatly. You’ve missed him, and that you are quite possibly in love with him. You don’t really know how to feel about this, however. You came to this realization that you were in love with him fairly recently, and since you came to that realization you just pushed it to the back of your mind to get over it. You didn’t expect him to come back, so you weren’t sure about acting on it. But he’s back now, and you know that you want to be with him, even just in a platonic sense. Just to have him with you is good enough at this time. But you surprise yourself. You’re very comfortable with the idea of being in love with this man but that comfort kind of freaks you out a bit.

                “So where are you hiding the good alcohol these days?” comes his voice over your shoulder, and you turn with soaking wet hands to look at him. In the dim light of the kitchen, he looks exhausted. You imagine the type of travel he took to get to the west and it isn’t as pleasant as you’d hope. You’ve heard several accounts of people having walked for miles and miles to reach the boarder. You’ve never heard of anyone being able to take the train, or fly, or drive. But he looks exhausted. You can’t stop yourself, moving forward and you wrap him up in a hug, holding him tight to you. You bury your face against the crook of his neck, holding him closer than comfortable.

                “I’m just so glad you’re home and safe, Richard.” You tell him, “You had me worried, you know that?” You slowly move to look at him, holding him at arms length, hands gripping his shoulders tightly to make sure he is really standing here in front of you. “We hadn’t heard anything. We thought you were dead.” You tell him. He laughs nervously, looking down at the floor. “I’ve never seen Paul so panicked about anything, Richard. He was worried you’d never come back, and you’d never be able to play guitar with him again.” You laugh, slowly letting him go. You go back to the cupboard under the sink, finding the good whiskey your father had bought you for your twenty-first birthday. You save it a glass at a time for special occasions. He gets two glasses and makes his way to the table, taking a seat with you.

                “I’m glad to be home.” He tells you, settling back in his chair. He looks a lot more relaxed than he had done earlier in the afternoon, and this might be due to your reception of him. “It wasn’t anything good, I promise. I just wanted to be back here.”

                “I’ve heard it isn’t all luxury travel and beautiful women serving you good vodka on ice. Where did you end up?” you ask him, cheers-ing your glass with his before sipping the brown liquid in your glass. It warms your throat, and you watch him.

                “West Berlin. I arrived there not long before the wall fell. I think if I’d have had time to settle down and embrace life there I’d have been okay, but I hated it. I just wanted to come home.” He admits, downing the liquid. “It was just… It was just so different. No reason to look over your shoulder every five minutes. No worries about people handing you over to the Stasi. There were no rules, Till. There was nothing being imposed on you. You could pretty much do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted and however you wanted to do it. There was no one there to stop you.” He says softly, looking down into his lap. “It was too much freedom all at once. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

                You watch him as he speaks and he seems to become quite shy. He’s not someone you know to be that way, and it worries you. Maybe he’s being more cautious than before because he doesn’t know who to trust anymore? Maybe he’s lost all trust in anyone for now. “We don’t have to talk about it if it’s making you uncomfortable.” You tell him, but he still seems very weary of you, but your statement seems to put some of his fears to bed.

                “No. It’s good to talk about it, right? My mother always said a problem shared is a problem halved, so I should talk about it?” he tells you, and he seems to get a little more uncomfortable. “You know what they did to me, what they were going to do to me? There was no way I could stay in the east. I had to get out.” He explains, and you pour him another glass of whiskey. “Six days was enough in that prison. Six days was enough. There were people there who’d been held for weeks. I had to get out. They’d be following me forever. I’d not be able to do anything, Till. I’d not be able to live!” He says, his voice getting a little more insistent as he spoke.

                “Richard, you don’t have to justify your reasons for leaving. I understand…” you tell him, “I know you had to. I’m just sorry I couldn’t come with you.”

                “I do have to, Till.” He stares at you across the table. “You need to know. I need to get this out, okay?” His voice is eerily calm, and he looks at you with cold eyes. A lot must have happened to him on his journey. “I walked for miles, travelling quickly down the border to Hungary and then into a refugee camp there. They helped me to get into Austria and then back to West Berlin. I was penniless, I was homeless and I was exhausted, Till. I cannot explain this exhaustion to you.” He says, downing his second glass of whiskey. “There were so many people. With all the people in this refugee camp you wouldn’t think there’d be anyone left in East Germany, Till. There were so many young families, men and women will small children who were fleeing for their lives. There were just so many.” He repeated, and he had a vacant expression on his face. “They fed us there, and made sure we could get to where we needed to be. In all my life I never thought I’d end up seeking political asylum. I never thought this would happen.”

                “Richard, we can continue talking about it in the morning.” You tell him. You can tell from the way his eyes are glazing over that this is affecting him more than he’s letting on. “Come on, let’s just sit, relax and forget about all this till the morning. You’re home now, that’s all that matters to me, okay? Let’s just take it easy.”

                “You’re right…” he sighs softly, scrubbing at his face with the balls of his hands. “I could do with just switching my brain off for a while. I’ve not been able to relax at all.” He gets to his feet and the two of you make your way to the living room. You fall into the couch together and watch the television for a while, not speaking, not doing anything, just sitting in a comfortable silence. You’ve missed this. You’ve missed him. You look over to say something to him, and you notice that he’s already nodded off to sleep. His head is resting against your shoulder and he is snoring lightly. You smile, shifting slightly to put your arm around his shoulder. This is not the first time you two have slept together, and you have missed this feeling of being so close to another human. You hold him close and he shifts against you, his head falling against your chest, an arm thrown over your lap. He is soundless now. You take a moment to reacquaint yourself with him, having almost forgotten what he looked like this close up. You never imagined your memory failing you so quickly when someone left, or maybe that’s just separation anxiety? You had almost forgotten what he was like this close to you, and how much you enjoy looking at him. He is pleasant to your eyes and you can’t help but want to reach out and touch him.

                You know he has the softest skin you’ve ever felt. You look down at the top of his head, and see the beginnings of his roots growing through. He’d bleached his hair while he was away, you can tell, but the regrowth tells you he might have cut it very soon after he left, maybe to make himself less recognizable. You slowly reach over and gently run your fingers through his hair, and it feels a lot softer than it was before. His dreads had been a mass of unkept, matted, bleach-burned hair and they’d felt horrible. However, all cut short around the sides and long on the top, he looked incredibly handsome. In a way, you want him to keep his hair like this. It suits him. He looks more grown-up, and you gently brush it with your fingers. Whoever cut this did a very nice job on it. You remind yourself to ask him about it in the morning. You watch him for a while longer before you look up at the clock above the fire. It’s getting pretty late, and you know you need to be up early for work so you decide to wake him and take you both to bed. You shake him very gently, “Richard, it’s time for bed, let’s go.” You say calmly, slowly starting to move yourself, hoping that extracting yourself from under him will wake him up. All of a sudden he rouses, and he looks startled and frightened. “It’s getting late, bed?” you say softly, “I’ve made up the spare room for you.” You tell him, and he nods. He doesn’t speak but he rises to his feet. “It’s a little cold in there but I’ve put a load of extra blankets on the bed for you, okay?”

                “I prefer the cold anyway…” he smiles, hugging you once more. He lingers a moment longer than you usually think acceptable, but you don’t mind it. You use this opportunity to take him in, to just get used to the feel of his body against yours. Richard is muscular, there’s no doubting it, but he is soft. He isn’t rock hard like you are, his body has an adorable softness to it, and you don’t want to focus for too long, but it’s rapidly becoming one of your favourite physical features of his. His grip seems to tighten around you a little before he lets go, and that makes you feel a little bit warm.“Thank you, Till. See you in the morning.”

                “Yes, sweet dreams”

* * *

                You wake, startled, to hear the most blood-curdling chilling scream coming from outside your bedroom and down the hall. At first you think it’s Nele, and you leap from the bed and throw yourself down the hall towards her room. You are so startled by the noise that you throw her bedroom door wide open, seeing her lying in bed asleep, blissfully unaware of any external noise to her dream land. You turn then, and hear another scream, this time more noticeably masculine and you pull her door closed, turning to his. You see him lying in bed, writhing in the sheets. The room is freezing but you can see a silvery sheen of sweat covering his chest. He’s struggling against some nightmarish thing and your fatherly instinct is to just hold him until he calms without waking him. But something tells you this requires so much more than that. He needs to be dragged back to reality and shown that he’s safe. Whatever it is that’s haunting him is far more damaging than any of Nele’s nightmares.

                You slowly make your way over to his bed, kneeling yourself next to him. You grip his arms tightly and shake him a little more violently than before. He shrieks, gripping onto you and stares at you in bewilderment. “Richard, it’s okay. You’re here! You’re home. It’s okay.” You tell him, and you refuse to let him go despite his struggling. It takes him a few moments to realize his surroundings. “It was only a dream. It’s okay, Richard. You’re safe.” You tell him, moving to pull him into a tight hug. You hold him tightly, knowing that the encompassing comfort is what he needs right now. He stops writhing in your arms and settles still, before the uncontrollable sobs burst from him, and he convulses against you, sobbing large, wet tears into your chest. You hush him, gently wiping at his cheeks and you hold him close, letting him cry it out. You know better than to tell him he’s being silly or overreacting. Whatever he’s experienced over the past few weeks has affected him so deeply that it’s channeling through every aspect of his life. You cannot begin to understand the fear he feels, and you don’t wish to try and understand. You can only be a presence to comfort him.

                He slowly moves himself against you, gently pushing at your chest to move you away from him. Not in a way that suggests he doesn’t want you there, but so that he has some breathing space and that he might feel a little better.

                “Do you want to come to my room?” you offer, “It’s warmer, and maybe another person being there will make you sleep better? You tell him, gently rubbing at his arm. You don’t want to leave him alone, but he knows what’s best for him. He stares up at you, his eyes puffy from tears and they look heavy with exhaustion. You feel every ounce of sympathy with him in this moment, and you pull him back into your arms for a hug. You know this is uncharacteristic of you to do this, but your fatherly instincts are kicking in. You want to protect him, as you weren’t able to do so before he left. You want to make up for all that protection you were unable to give.

                He clings to you, and nods a silent affirmative that he wants to join you in your room. You forget about all those masculine inclinations in your everyday life and all you want is to make sure he’s okay. You’ve accepted that you love him, you just need to be able to show him that now. You pull the door to the spare room closed so that the cold stays in there, and head back to your room with him close in tow. He crawls into your bed and you wrap the sheets around the both of you. At first, you don’t want to lie too close to him, but then he shifts right up to you, and you can feel the heat of his skin sinking into yours through the thin sheet between you. You slowly look down at him, and he’s already asleep next to you, having dropped off fairly quickly from the exhaustion of it all. You smile, and slowly turn onto your side to keep an eye on him. You feel a little better knowing you’re doing something to make him feel safe. And slowly, but surely, you drift off to sleep with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re not a permanent presence in anyone’s life because you have been shown that you aren’t worth an eternity, and you know he’ll eventually prove this to you for the hundred and first time._

                It has been a month, two weeks and four days since Richard arrived at your house after having escaped East Germany and fled to the West for his own safety. He is a mess at best, and is on edge at all times. He still hasn’t spoken to you about what happened since he last attempted to explain it, but you’re not about to push him for information he isn’t willing to give. He’s locked himself up good and tight. There is an irony to the wall falling and bringing him back to you, only to have him build a wall around himself. You can feel him drifting away from you, slowly but he’s still physically very close.

                He’s becoming a person you aren’t sure you know, or want to know.

                His nightmares are less frequent than they had been when he got back, but they are still very present. You know it’s either that, or he’s hiding it from you. You keep reminding him that he shouldn’t hide it from you, that he should share it with you and tell you what he feels, but you know he’s hiding it from you in an attempt to cling onto his masculinity. But that’s not how mental health works; you of all people know this. You watch him potter around your house, sorting himself with food and water and all you can see is the haunted look in his eyes. He’s terrified of what’s going on inside his head. You can almost hear the cogs turning in his brain, processing the fear through him. He’s constantly on edge, jumping at the slightest sound. You don’t want to pressure him, but you want him to tell you what’s going on. As they say, a problem shared is a problem halved.

                But he won’t tell you, not at all. He’s locked it all up and thrown away the key and you know it’s going to be a long time before he works it out and can begin to talk about it. You sit opposite him at the kitchen table, and you watch him. He’s obviously traumatised but refuses to admit it. You just watch him. He’s exhausted, and he looks like he’s struggling to keep those eyes open. He’s only been awake for an hour but he can barely stay awake.

                “Why don’t you go back to bed?” you tell him, sipping at your coffee. He slowly raises his head to look at you and his eyes are heavy with the need for sleep.

                “I’m fine.”

                “Richard. Go to bed, you’re falling asleep in your cereal.”

                “I. Am. Fine.” He tells you belligerently. He is as stubborn as Nele is, and you know that he’s avoiding sleep to avoid the nightmares, just like Nele does the night after she’s woken in fear. But you watch him eyeing up the drinks cabinet in your kitchen and you frown, and decide to attempt to tackle it as inoffensively as you can.

                “Richard Kruspe.” You put on your best fatherly voice. “You take yourself up to bed and I’ll be up in ten minutes to tuck you in. Get the fuck up those stairs.”

                He stares at you, frown furrowing his brow so low his eyes almost disappear. “No.” He growls, staring defiantly at you.

                “Richard.”

                “I’m not going. I don’t need to sleep. I can stay awake Till. Stop being such an arsehole about this.” He shovels some cereal into his mouth in an attempt to prove he’s more awake than he appears but it’s terribly obvious that he wants to go to sleep.

                “Richard, if you were a cartoon, your eyelids would be snapping matches. Go back to bed.”

                He stares at you under a furrowed brow and get to his feet, pushing his chair back with such force it crashed to the floor. “Fine.” He growled, heading towards the stairs.

                “I’ll stay with you, Richard. I promise, okay? I’ve got a book to read anyway.” You tell him, getting to your feet. You pick up your book, and you offer a hand to him. “My room, not the spare room. It’s warmer in there.” And he stomps up the stairs slowly and loudly, like a stroppy child.

                You watch him as he staggers to your room. He’s drunk on exhaustion, and he falls face first into the mass of pillows and blankets on the mattress and doesn’t move.

                “Don’t you dare say I told you so.” He growls. He shifts slightly, groaning a little as he clutches at the pillows and sheets. “Till you literally have the comfiest bed I’ve ever put myself in.” He yawns, and as quick as you can say _sleep_ , he was out cold, snoring away quietly. You can’t help but laugh, crawling onto the bed with him. He groans as you sit yourself next to his sleeping form. You open up your book and begin to read, occasionally looking over to make sure he’s okay. He’s sleeping peacefully, and all the frowns and lines of aching and desperation have gone from his face. He looks more his age now.

                You rest back and get to reading, getting through a sizable chunk of the book in the time he’s asleep. You manage to leave him and go to make yourself something to eat, wrapping him up a sandwich and putting it into the fridge. You make your way back upstairs, hearing him beginning to whimper. You put down your plate on the floor at the top of the stairs, running into your room to see him there, beginning to writhe in the sheets. The frown is back, and you can see a cold sweat over his skin. You make your way over to the bed and gently shake him, just as you have done before, and call to him “Richard, it’s time to wake up now. It’s just a dream.” He groans and strains against the sheets, and you gently run a hand through his hair, shaking him once more. “Richard. Wake up.” Your voice is a lot firmer this time and you shake him a little harder.

                His eyes fly open, and he stares straight up at you, pushing you away from him as if you’re whatever he’s struggling against in his dream.

                “Richard, it’s okay. It’s alright. You’re awake now, you’re safe.” You tell him, pulling him into a sitting position. He wraps his arms tight around your neck and buries his head against the crook of your neck and he sobs. “Richard, what happened? What were you dreaming of?” you ask him, gently rubbing your hand over his back, hugging him tightly, attempting to sooth him. “What got you all worked up, Risch?” He doesn’t respond, he just holds you a little tighter. You look down at him, repositioning yourself so he can curl up in your arms. You know that right now all he needs is comfort, and you are the sole provider of that for him. Nele would sometimes come and sit with him, but she is away at her mother’s for a couple of weeks before she starts school, so it’s just the two of you. You cradle him in your arms and make sure that he is comforted. He’s still shaking, and is visibly hurt. “You’re safe now, Richard, you’re safe.” You tell him, gently rocking yourself with him to help him calm down.

                He slowly moves himself away from you, very slowly, making sure that it’s not sudden like he’s frightened. He wipes angrily at his eyes, and looks up at you, his eyes raw and swollen from the tears. He’s still frightened. You reach over and take his hand, “Tell me what happened to you, Richard.” You ask, watching him. “You need to talk about it, you know that.”

                “There’s nothing to tell that you don’t already know.” He says plainly. “Being held in that prison cell, what they fucking did, what I experienced during that fucking few weeks away…” he stops, unable to look at you. “I can’t begin to explain it to you because I’m not wholly sure how to explain it to myself…” he sighs, wiping his eyes once more, and then his nose on the back of his hand. “All you need to know is that it’s messed me up.” He says softly, getting to his feet quickly. He’s feeling emasculated by the experience, and he needs to claim something back.

                “You look better rested…” you tell him, “You were asleep a good few hours before you woke up.”

                “I don’t feel rested.”

                You get to your feet and make your way out of the room. “There’s a sandwich for you in the fridge.” You tell him, feeling a little dejected. You know how he’s feeling, and you know this has been tough on him but you wish that he would be a little nicer to you. He’s been drinking a lot more than before and you feel a little sick at the thought, because while you like a drink, you’re sad that he’s moving to at least half a bottle of whiskey a day to get through. You’re running out of ideas on how to help him but you’re attempting to make sure that you can have him in the house around Nele. You worry that his drinking will get worse and it won’t be safe for your daughter anymore, but you’ve got an internal conflict because you know he’s got no where else to go right now. You hate to admit it to yourself, but if he continues, you’re going to have to kick him out of your house.

                “Till, I’m sorry.” He says suddenly, and you turn and look at him. “I… I don’t mean to be so cold, but I just don’t really know how to process all this.” He explains, “I’m not sure how I feel right now about anything. I’m just on edge all the time. I can’t relax. I’m jumpy, and I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I don’t know what to do…” you can see the tears welling up in his eyes. Masculinity has no purpose when you’re tired.  
Honestly does it ever have a purpose?

                “Richard, do you want to go back to sleep? I’ll stay with you and wake you up the moment you look as though a nightmare is taking hold?”

                “No… No sleep. Not right now. Shall we go and get something to eat?” he asks, and his tone seems quite optimistic. “What was in that sandwich you made me?”

                “Cured meats and some cheese.” You tell him, taking the stairs, heading down to the kitchen.

                “Alright. Then let’s go eat and then put on a film or something.” He smiles; a weak smile, but a smile nonetheless.

* * *

                You lie in bed reading a book. Except you’re not really focused on what you’re reading; there are too many things running around in the front of your mind for you to properly enjoy what you’re reading. You have read the same sentence at least seven times now, and you’re beginning to lose patience with yourself. You can’t stop thinking about Nele being with her mother for the week, or Richard and his terrible nightmares. You can’t stop thinking about the things your father has said to you in recent times, which you know holds no meaning in your life but they affect you all the same. You look to the door and for a moment, you just wish that you could go and get Richard and hold him. As you look to the empty side of your double bed, sheets unmessed, you wish that there were another with you. You miss the feeling of sleeping next to someone, of waking with someone in your arms. You know that you don’t need to be in a relationship for you to feel like a whole person, but you just miss the feelings of intimacy that you shared with another.

                You think back to when you were with Nele’s mother, before your daughter was born, and you think of how temporarily happy you were, until the unexpected pressure of a child was put on your relationship prematurely. You wouldn’t change it for the world, because ultimately you got the greatest gift anyone could bestow on you, but you are aware that you’d not had the chance to live your life to the fullest extent before Nele was born. But she is an interesting child; very much like you in all ways, you know. She has your mannerisms, and she is fiercely intelligent, with a deeper understanding of many things than a child her age should really have. You love her, more than anything in this world, and there is nothing you would not do for her. And while marrying at twenty two and children had not been a part of your life plan for a long time, you cannot be angry at Nele’s mother for wanting to go off and live her life and leave you because, as your mother has told you _You were born to be a father_.

                But you think to Richard, and your mood drops slightly. You have really been burying your feelings for him for a long time, in fear that it may trigger something in him and make him want to leave you all over again. You’ve already dealt with one bout of heartbreak and you’re not ready to deal with anymore. You have to admit it to yourself, on this cold night in December that you are wholly in love with this man and you are not sure how much longer you can hold those feelings in. You’re not telling him how you feel purposely because you are concerned for his current mental state, and you are a great believer that love is not the solver of all problems. You’re realistic enough to know that telling him about your feelings will just add to the mental burden he is already dealing with, so at this moment in time you’d tell anyone who’d listen that you’re happy to accept whatever he can offer you; even if this is just his companionship, although if you’re truly honest with yourself, which you always try to be, you’re not really happy with that.

                You think about it, and you have avoided trying to put together all the things that have happened between the two of you. You try not to think too much into the relationship that the two of you have, but you’re entirely certain that your feelings are unreciprocated, the plight of human existence. You contemplate the type of relationship the two of you had if he reciprocated your feelings. You imagine the two of you on a lazy Sunday afternoon, lying in bed together, reading and napping the day away. It’s calm and collected and you feel warm at the image in your mind, this domestic bliss seems to suit you more than you thought. And yet, there’s a part of you that feels as though he’d never fall in love with you the way you love him. You imagine what it’d be like to kiss him, and that he’d taste of cigarettes, whiskey and rich dark chocolate. You think about what he would feel like against you, and while you already know the feeling of his body against yours, but that is in a completely platonic sense; you want to know what he really feels like against you. You want to know what his skin tastes like under your tongue. You want to know the feel of your hands running over his body, mapping out every inch of his perfect skin. You want to feel him in every way possible, but mostly, you want to love him from the deepest places in your soul, and make sure that he knows he is loved. But you know deep down that you’re completely unlovable, as has been proved a hundred times before, as women have proved to you. You’re a fleeting fancy and nothing more. You’re not a permanent presence in anyone’s life because you have been shown that you aren’t worth an eternity, and you know he’ll eventually prove this to you for the hundred and first time.

                You decide to give it up for the night, and you feel as though if you were to use your brain any more this evening then your head might explode; there is too much self-doubt and loathing in your soul at this time. You turn off all the lights and burrow down into your blankets, sighing softly to yourself as you drift off into a restless sleep.

* * *

                There is a knock at your door that pulls you from your sleep. You slowly shift in the bed to sit up to be greeted by a bleary eyed Richard, staring blankly in your direction.

                “I can’t sleep.” He tells you plainly, heading into your bedroom without any need for invitation. You watch him crawl up the bed towards you. He settles down next to you a moment and then turns to look at you. “Did I wake you?” he asks, watching you. You move to lie back down in the bed next to him, turning onto your side. You take a moment to look at him in the dim light and admire him. He’s so beautiful, and as a little moonlight beams through a crack in the curtains onto him, it lights up his eyes.

                “Till?” His voice is a lot softer than normal, but it’s unsettling to hear. He doesn’t sound like himself but you know it’s him.

                “Sorry, no. No you didn’t wake me.” You lie, even though he’d woken you. There was a strange nagging feeling in the back of your mind that something isn’t quite right. The way he looks seems a little different. You thought you’d examined him close enough but there is something not quite right here. You can’t quite put your finger on it. His vacant expression lets nothing go, but he feels warm and real in your arms.

                “Oh good.” He smiles, moving a little closer to you, “I didn’t have a nightmare. I just can’t sleep.” He tells you, and you feel his arms wrapping around you. His smile is a little too wide, his eyes a little too awake for someone who’s just woken up. There’s something unsettling about him but you can’t quite see it yet. He buries your head in his chest and you feel your heart begin to beat a little faster at the physical contact with him. “Till…” he stops, and he’s looking up at you and those eyes are so wide and his expression is blank; his smile is gone and he stares up, he looks dead behind the eyes. You can’t really tell what he’s feeling, or what he’s going to do, but this physical contact without him having experiencing a nightmare has never happened between the two of you. He’s never just gotten himself into your bed and curled up into your arms. But you are in no position to say no to him. You just want to be close to him.

                “Why are you so jumpy?” he asks you, snapping your train of thought. Though you know he’s not really looking for an answer. He slowly moves himself level with you, his hands moving gently over your sides, you arms, making you jumpy. Your skin has become hyperaware of the contact being made, and you feel yourself heating under his hands, and before you can really register what’s happening, his lips are pressed tight against yours, his body hot against yours. His hands slowly roam up the skin on your back, his fingers grip into the hair on the back of your head and he yanks your head back, his lips and teeth roaming down your throat. There’s still not something right. You can’t put your finger on it, but you’re becoming so distracted by the feel of his teeth and tongue lapping and nipping at the skin on your throat that you can’t really register what it is about him that is unsettling you.

                A sound escapes from your throat that is incredibly feminine and you feel embarrassment flame up in your cheeks but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He continues south, pushing you onto your back and he straddles your hips. He is becoming incredibly rough with you, forcing you into the position he wants you. But at this point, you’re a slave to your urges and you can only watch him with a dark fascination. His teeth nip at your chest, and you groan, your fingers finding his hair and you can feel how rough it’s getting seeing as he’s bleaching it and attempting to dread it again and while you hate it, you won’t stop him from doing what he wants. You watch him travel south, across the abdomen and he settles near your hips. His teeth nip at the protruding bones from your skin, and he growls, holding your hips down with strong hands before his tongue runs over your erection. But as you watch, his face begins to contort into something you don’t recognise and you can feel anxiety pulling in the pit of your stomach. _This isn’t right. This needs to stop._

                Your breath catches in your throat, and your fingers grip his hair tightly as his tongue laps around the tip of your cock, knocking all those anxious thoughts sideways. He groans softly, taking you fully into his mouth, and the hot, wet feel against your cock makes you groan loudly. One hand reaches up to grip the headboard, holding yourself steady as his tongue slides over your erection and you can feel all the blood in your body pooling in your hips. You buck your hips gently against his mouth, and he grips at your hips tightly, pinning you down, harder than he should be able to. You can feel the pleasure rising, the familiar ache in your lower back, and you can feel the tingling in your fingers which makes you want to grip something tightly as you come. But you can hear something in the background of this scene, and it’s starting to detract from the mood, and you attempt to stop him, and as he sits up, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

                “Don’t you love me, Till?” he says softly at first, sitting up on your hips. “Don’t you want me?” his hisses, moving to pin you down to the bed, his hands gripping tightly at your wrists. “Don’t you love me? Isn’t this what you want, Till?” he shouts loudly, repeating this over and over in your face, screaming down at you.

                And you shake yourself from your sleep, sitting bolt upright in your sheets in a cold sweat and with a painful erection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Till's dad voice. That is all.


	8. Chapter 8

                You sit in silence for a moment attempting to catch your breath, and attempt to wake your tired brain faster so you can process what you were just dreaming about.

                “What the actual fuck?” you say to yourself, looking up as the door pushes open. You look up in your panicked state and see Richard standing there. You sigh as Richard is shirtless. He’s standing there in front of you with that broad chest, and you don’t really want to look at him right now. You wish you could tell him to put a shirt on but you’re aware he’s not a child. He’s twenty two years old. He can do what he wants but to be honest you could do with him putting the loosest turtle neck jumper on that he owns.

                “Jesus Christ Till did you have a nightmare or something? You woke me up!” he laughs, stepping into the room.

                “N-no! Stop there!” you warn. “I’m fine, honestly. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll be okay.” You tell him, awkwardly attempting to cover yourself so he doesn’t see how painfully turned on you are by the images of dream him still burned into your retinas.

                “Um… are you sure? You look terrified.” He says softly, “You need me to stay with you?”

                “No… no. I’m fine, really.” You tell him. “You go back to bed, sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you.” You look up and see something that resembles realization in his face. A small smile begins to pull at his lips and he laughs.

                “Yes…” he says softly, “okay… you know where I am if you need me.” He says softly, laughing to himself as he closes the door. You feel embarrassment wash over your whole self as you sit uncomfortably in your own shame. You can’t help but feel sheer embarrassment at what’s happening to you. You just feel so terrible. What on earth was happening in that dream?

                You take yourself quickly and quietly to the bathroom to sort yourself out, gripping at your erection tightly, the images of Richard’s mouth around your cock playing over and over in your mind as you try desperately to rid yourself of this embarrassment. But you can’t get the images out of your mind; pre-madness in the dream, you can’t stop thinking about how real it all felt. You can’t stop thinking about the feel of his mouth travelling down your skin, how his hands felt against your body and how warm and strong they’d been as they’d pinned your hips down to the mattress.

                You’re gasping now, growing impatient with yourself as this isn’t happening fast enough. You need this to go down so you can lie awake and think carefully about what this all means, but right now you’re consumed with the blind need to just _fucking come_.

                You can’t help but imagining Richard’s hands teasing and squeezing you, stroking you; on his knees in front of you, and those lips, that tongue, working over your sensitive cock, with that dark lustful look in his eyes behind the coyness in his face, you can feel the tickle of his matted hair tickling your belly, and you imagine yourself reading out to touch him, to feel him, how fucking beautiful he is.

                And with that, you spill over your fingers with a stilted groan, bent forward, arm propping you up against the cold tiles in the bathroom. You hang there a moment longer, your knees are shaking and you’re struggling for breath and you can feel the sweat dripping down your skin.

_Fuck._

                You think about the absolute depravity in your actions and the way it made you feel thinking about your friend, _you best friend_ sucking your dick and that dizzying mixture of pure bliss and utter shame taking over your body. You can’t get the image of him from your mind, even as your hips throb post-orgasm; you imagine what kind of person he is after sex now. The thought alone makes you feel sick, but you’re simultaneously intrigued. You want to know if he’s attentive and cuddly, or distant and cool. You want to feel him in your arms in that context. You’ve held him before but it’s never been sexual, only even protective and platonic, but you want it to be more than that.

                Letting out a sigh, you begin the clean up, wiping angrily at your skin before stripping and stepping into your shower. You need to cool down, that’s what you’re certain of right now. The water is cold against your hot skin and it raises tiny goose bumps, and you curse yourself mentally for what you’ve allowed to happen to you. You begin to feel a little better, more human, and more numb and you switch the water off. You wrap a towel around yourself and decide that going back to bed is the best thing for you to do right now. You’ve not had a nightmare in a very long time, not since Nele was young and you thought she’d died but it had just been a dream.

                You towel your hair off and drop the damp fabric to the floor, slipping back under the sheets. They’re a lot more dry than you’d originally thought they would be, considering the cold sweat you woke up in but you elect to change them in the morning because right now your mind is exhausted and you need to try and get back to sleep.

                But you can’t. You can’t stop thinking about that dream. Why had Richard gotten so angry when you’d attempted to stop him? Why had he turned violent? Where was the dream going if you hadn’t woken yourself up? You think about Richard for a moment, and just him in the context of your dream. Something wasn’t right about him. You didn’t quite understand what it was about him that wasn’t right because he was too busy sucking your dick. But he wasn’t Richard. He could have been anyone? He could have been any man at that moment, any human, and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were so lost in the sensation of his mouth around the tip of your cock that you’d almost lost all recognition of what was happening. But nonetheless, something was off with Richard, apart from the violent outburst that woke you up.

                You think about the look on his face, and how unsettling he was. His smile had been just that little too wide, uncharacteristically so. It looked almost unnatural. And for someone with so much life in their eyes, Richard was positively dead. What was your brain trying to tell you about Richard? Was it trying to tell you something about your hypothetical relationship with him? What if the two of you got together and he became someone you really didn’t like? Was your dream-self trying to warn you about your future endeavors? What if getting into a relationship with him ruined everything you two already had together? You begin to panic a little.

                You lie there and think about it, and become hyperaware of the feel the sheets make against your skin. You groan softly, trying your hardest to not think of Richard’s mouth any longer, but it’s impossible. You don’t want to think about it anymore. You don’t want to feel this way about him anymore and you want to go back to how things were before you made this discovery about yourself. But ultimately, if you want to place blame on anything it’s him. His leaving triggered you to assess your feelings about him and therefore you discovered your feelings and therefore it’s his fault. There, that solves it.

                But that doesn’t make you feel better. You know these feelings are unrequited, because you know that you are an unlovable monster, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t feel love. You do, and at the moment, he’s the object of your affections. Maybe you should discuss this with someone else, like Paul? No, Paul is too involved with Richard; he might tell the other about your feelings. You might have grown close to Paul but growing up in the east has taught you to never trust anybody with anything; you don’t know who they’ll tell.

                Insomnia has won, you’ve decided, your brain is much too active from what’s happened so you make your way downstairs after wrapping yourself up in a dressing gown and some pyjama bottoms and head for the bottle of whiskey that you’d hidden in the kitchen. Maybe some writing would quell your nerves and your sadness?

                Setting yourself a glass and the bottle of whiskey at your desk, you flick on the small desk lamp so you can do some writing. You sit for a long while, swigging large gulps of whiskey as you sit uncomfortably in the chair. You need to get these thoughts out of your brain so you finally get some rest. Tomorrow is Sunday so you can spend it doing nothing until Nele is brought home. You crack the bottle open and pour yourself a glass, downing it, topping it up, downing it once more before filling the glass again.

                You think to Nele for a while, and realise that soon her mother will want her to go and live with her. It breaks your heart to think of that, that everyone is leaving you and you’ll eventually lose Richard too and then you’ll be alone, just like your father predicted, _The same as your father._

                Downing the third glass, you think that maybe, while you’re drunk, you should go and wake Richard with all your Dutch courage and tell him how you feel. You want to tell him, really you do but the thought of it makes you feel sick. You’d rather have him here and you be unhappy than not have him at all. You look at the bottle that you’ve cleared about half of, and you sigh softly. You know you should tell him and you want to tell him. You want to know if there’s a chance that the two of you could work together and you want to know if he could be that one person who could be with you forever. But you’re weary of the concept of _forever_. You’ve had that concept smashed far too many times in your life. Nothing is forever; everything is temporary.

                You grow angry with yourself and your cowardice and scribble down three lines before you carry your now suitably drunk self to bed:

 

_Wie kommst du nur in traum darauf  
daß ich dir sage  
Woran ich kaum zu denken wage”_

~~~~~~~~~

                You wake to a house that is uncharacteristically quiet. Nele isn’t home, you know, but Richard should be and there is a terrible unease over what is going on. You’re still full of anxiety from the dream you’d experienced the previous night but you feel a little less embarrassed by that now. You can deal with those feelings right now. You spend a few moments lying in the warmth of your sheets, not wanting to leave the safety they provide you with. With all the turbulence you experience in your life, you bed provides you with an infinite point of consistency that makes you feel secure, but you’re certain that’s how everyone feels about his or her bed.

                You finally drag yourself from your sheets, and carry the now empty whiskey bottle down to the kitchen. The house is completely empty and in a way you’re thankful as you could really do with ten minutes to yourself in absolute silence to try and piece together what is going on with your emotions.

                With a strong cup of coffee in hand you sit in the comfiest chair in your living room and wrap your dressing gown a little tighter around your chest. There is a chill in the air, you assume due to the lack of bodies in the house, but you sip at the steaming cup of dark liquid and revel in the warmth that radiates through you. You snuggle down into the soft nap of the fabric and sigh softly to yourself.

                “Maybe I was never in love with him.” You say out loud. You take solace in the silence that answers you, and in a way this helps you clear your mind. “Maybe I was just infatuated with him? That’s not love.” You tell yourself. You feel better saying these things out loud, even if it’s to no one. It feels good to say it this way, and admit this to yourself. “Maybe we are just very good friends who’re dependent on one another’s company.” You say, and settle at that for a while. Yes, you like that idea. You’re not in love with Richard don’t be silly. He might be an incredibly handsome young man with all the charm and charisma God never graced you with but he’s nothing but a friend, right? Right.

 _But what about when he finally grows less dependent on you and finds someone else with whom he can live and love?_ a voice in the back of your mind says to you. _What will you do once he moves out and leaves you with a wife and children? What will you do?_

                The thought sends a chill down your spine and makes your stomach turn a little. Unfortunately, you hadn’t really thought about him meeting someone and leaving. He’s so young that you think he’s going to stay that way forever. He’s only in his early twenties and therefore has his entire life ahead of him. But he’ll inevitably meet someone and fall in love and leave you. _You cannot keep a hold of him forever_.

                You move yourself to your desk and sift through the papers, finally picking up the poem you’d written the night before. You can admit to yourself that you’d written it in a slight drunken stupor but as you read over the words you’re kind of proud of yourself. They could relate to anything, and no one but you knows about that dream. You sigh to yourself and take the paper back to the armchair, settling into the cushions. You rest your head back against the back of the chair and feel completely at rest, feeling sleep pulling at you once more.

                The images from your dream have disappeared from your mind for now, and you don’t feel so violently turned on, which gives you more room to relax and allow yourself to snooze a little bit before anyone comes home. But there he is, you can see him. He’s haunting you, and you tell him so but he just laughs, moving to sit close to you in the large armchair you currently occupy. This time he is more real, more subdued, he doesn’t seem to want to pin you down this time. He gently cups your cheek and presses the gentlest kiss to your lips. This is different to anything you’ve ever felt. He gently runs his thumb over your cheek and deepens the kiss slightly, before moving his lips, his tongue, moves damply across your skin; moves over your cheek, your jaw, trailing over your neck. He sucks lightly at the pulse point on your throat, and it makes you react, gently running your hands over him, taking the opportunity to feel him, to caress his skin. You revel in the closeness of this domestic bliss, and you know in your mind that this is the kind of scene you want from a relationship with Richard. This is what you need.

                A bustling through the door breaks drags you from your dream and you see Richard coming through with some shopping, and you feel completely vulnerable. But at least you’re not as visibly turned on by this dream as the last one.

                “Ah! You’re up!” Richard smiles, making his way to the living room. “Are you feeling better?” he asks, “Oh wait, you’ve been writing! Can I read it?” he asks, not really looking at you. “What’s this one?” he asks, picking up the piece of paper from the floor. You watch him and realise he’s holding the poem about himself and your heart stops in your chest. “Oh Till…” He says quietly, “Who’s the lucky lady then…?” he grins, winking at you before heading back to the kitchen.

                You stare up at him, unable to think for a moment, to think clearly. You want nothing more than to tell him that the poem is about him but you can’t; it’s still too risky. You don’t want to ruin this. “It’s no one…” you settle, “It just came to me last night. Fictitious dream person.”

                “She must have been someone, eh?” he laughs, heading back to the kitchen.

                “You’re in a chipper mood…” you note, getting to your feet to make some coffee. “What’s got you all happy!

                “Well… I’ve met someone.” He says, unable to stop smiling. “I really like her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when or why Till wrote that poem but I'm just going to pretend for the purposes of this fic that it was written about Richard and it's an old poem. 
> 
> It's called ['Ich Liebe Dich"](http://messerstein.tumblr.com/post/60381823818/lindemann) and it's in the In Stillen Nächten anthology! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When i talk about a recorder, i mean one of [these bad boys](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/514DQXN1h5L._SL1000_.jpg) not a tape recorder. I hope that makes sense...

                She is everything you could never be for him.

                You sit and you sip your drink and you stare because that’s all you can do right now. You cannot muster up the energy to speak. You cannot bring your brain to engage enough to go over and attempt friendly interaction with your best friend’s new girlfriend. She is, for lack of a better word, beautiful. She is all long legs and sharp hip-bones and you cannot help but hate her; she’s done nothing wrong, but you just can’t help but object to her being so close to him.

                She’s just so tall. She stands, in flat shoes, a good three inches taller than Richard, and her legs seem to you that they go on forever. You watch the two of them a moment, as she flicks her long blonde hair from her shoulder. She looks incredibly out of place in this club. A lot of the girls here are a little rough around the edges, beautiful nonetheless but not as refined as this girl. She has very sharp features, you notice; there is nothing soft about her. She has an incredibly angular face, and the more you look at her, the less pretty she seems. She’s not beautiful, this look is just fleeting, her prettiness won’t last her a lifetime.

                “What’s wrong Till? You’re very quiet tonight?” interjects Paul, pulling you from your thoughts and back to reality. You turn to look at him with frown on your face. “Well, I mean, quieter than normal. You’ve drunk enough to get you to that chatty point, bu-…”

                “Paul Landers are you stalking me?” you ask, a slight laugh to your tone, and he breaks into one of those large grins, all teeth and crows feet. You mother always said that you could trust a person who’s smile reaches their eyes, but with Paul, his smile is so wide you’re not sure his face has a choice but to crinkle his eyes closed as he smiles. But it’s not false, you know. It’s a genuine, warm smile that is infectious. You can’t help but want to join him. He’s a strange one, you admit, but he’s a good friend, even given his strange situation with the band he was in.

                “I’m not stalking you, I’m just worried.”

                “Well, there’s nothing to worry about…” you tell him, and your gaze moves back to Richard and the girl with the longest legs you’ve ever seen.

                “Ah, Richard’s new girlfriend,” he says, and as you look, his eyes are following your line of sight. “She’s a pretty one, I’ll give him that, but she’s boring as shit, Till.” He tells you, “You know she drinks vodka with _diet tonic._ Who even does that? Who drinks that shit?” This at least makes you laugh, “Her personality is about as bland as her drink.” He punctuates this insult with a sip of his drink, which is a clear drink. “It’s not even the good vodka like they have in Russia. I know the owner of this bar makes that vodka in his bath tub.” He laughs, “After he’s bathed in it.”

                “Well what’re you drinking then?” you ask him, laughing.

                “Bath tub vodka. It might be made out back but that shit is expensive and Richard was flashing the cash around to impress the new girl, though god knows what he’s been doing to have so much, so I wasn’t going to pass it up.” He grins, winking at you. “Here, can you hold this…” he asks you, producing a recorder from his pocket and placing it into your hand. “it was digging into my leg.”

                “You are a man of many mysteries, Paul Landers.” You tell him as he pulls a harmonica and a kazoo out of his trousers.

                Your eyes travel back to Richard and his new girlfriend, and you watch them for a while. Their dynamic is so strange. He’s not very affectionate with her, but that could be due to the anxiety he gets around large crowds of people. You watch them wander off to sit down and they’re very close, and he kisses her. Not just a peck on the cheek or the lips; he _kisses_ her. You can feel this irrational anger boiling in your chest and it’s crushing.

                You can’t take your eyes from them, and you watch him, the way his hands move over her skin. You find yourself longing for those hands to be on you but that thought is fleeting and only serves to making you angrier about this situation.

                “She’s not a very nice person, to be honest with you…” Paul breaks in, but you’re not entirely listening to him more just allowing what he’s saying to add fuel to the fire. “She was very dismissive of myself and Flake. Surely she’s not on her high horse about dating Richard because he’s technically a hobbit.” You stop and look at him for a moment, a look of utter confusion.

                “A hobbit?” you can’t hide the anger in your tone, but Paul doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too drunk and too caught up in his own train of thought to really pay attention to you.

                “Yeah, you know, Lord of the Rings? Small people with hairy feet?”

                “Paul, I know what a hobbit is, I’m just wondering if it’s all a little pot calling the kettle black?”

                “I get that but you see I don’t have hairy feet.”

                Your eyes go back to Richard and the girl. You don’t even know her name and of all the people here, he’s not introduced you to her. Why would he do that? He’s basically eating her face right now, and it occurs to you that if he’s living under your roof then she will be visiting. This train of thought is physically hurting you and you look to Paul, quickly taking his bathtub vodka and down it. You need to stop thinking about it and get out.

                “Hey! I was drinking that!”

                “Sorry.” You tell him, getting to your feet before looking for your escape route. You realise now there’s no way out but to walk past them, and that is your worst nightmare. You don’t want to have to engage with them, to speak to him and then to her. You don’t want to know her name. You don’t want to know what he thinks of her and you’re certain he won’t want to know what you think about her either. But you have to get out. You have to leave because this room is closing in on you and you’re beginning to feel crushed. He’s still kissing her as you leave, and it makes you sick to your stomach and you’re certain he hasn’t noticed you walking past.

                You storm out of the bar and into the street. You take the opportunity to light yourself a cigarette, growing frustrated, as your lighter won’t catch. You growl in agitation at the current situations; all your emotions bubbling up into one great feeling of anger. You feel so angry but you aren’t sure what to do about it. You want nothing more than to smash Richard in the face for being so ungrateful for everything you’ve done for him. You know that’s irrational to think like that. Just because you were good to him doesn’t mean he owes you anything, especially love. He doesn’t owe you anything at all.

                “Till?”

                “What?” you whip around and see him standing there. “What do you want?”

                “Are you okay?” he asks, as he moves closer to you, “You look agitated.”

                “I’m fine. I just need to get home, Richard.”

                “Why? The parties just getting started! Why would you wa-“

                “I just need to go home.”

                He stares at you, and there is hurt in his eyes. You can see it. Richard is one to wearing his heart on his sleeve, but not you. The only emotion you seem to be able to openly exhibit is anger. He moves closer to you and slowly reaches out, but stops himself, catching his hand and pulls it back. A small part of you wants him to touch you, to put his hands on you but you know that at this moment, there is so much anger inside of you that you’d probably end up doing something you regret.

                “Okay. I’ll see you at home?” You say nothing to him, just turn and leave him there in the dark.

                As you finally get home, you slam the door closed unnecessarily hard and you hunt angrily through the kitchen for whatever remnants of alcohol you could find to drown these sorrows of yours. You sit yourself down and sit in the silence your house offers for a while and begin to wallow in your own self-pity. You’ve never been one for that but you feel like if you’re going to take the opportunity to do so, now is the time. You’ve got plenty of time to loathe yourself now. Nele is spending more and more time with her mother and you know that soon she’s going to go back to living with her. You know you can no longer provide what she really needs emotionally now that she’s growing older and it’s breaking your heart to think about but deep down you know it’s probably best if she goes to live with her mother.

                You take a long gulp from the bottle, searching your pockets with your free hand for your packet of cigarettes. You finally find them and light yourself one, alternating between the two in your hands. You feel like this depressive mood of late is worsening, and you’re not wholly sure how to deal with it. You know Richard will be coming home soon and all you can do is pray to God that he leaves that harpy at the club and doesn’t bring her home. You feel like if he brought her back here you’d have to stab yourself in the ears because that’s a thing you never want to experience. You don’t want to think of what you look like in this moment, as you know your eyes are swollen and bloodshot, and you have no desire to move or make any effort to carry your exhausted body upstairs to your bed, if only if you knew that getting yourself upstairs would put an end to this emotional suffering you’re currently experiencing.

                There is no concise way for you to describe this discomfort you feel in your chest that radiates through the rest of your body. If you weren’t such an otherwise unhealthy man you’d put it down to a heart attack. But your heart rate hasn’t dropped at all since you left the club, and you don’t think you can properly explain yourself to Richard. You take another glug of the liquor, chasing it with a long drag on the cigarette. You don’t know if you can explain but ultimately you need to justify yourself – to tell him everything and just get it all off your chest. Your relationship with Richard is in an odd state of limbo, but you’re embarrassed by your feelings for him. There is a new empathy or understanding that you’re feeling for your younger self. You’ve not felt these irrational pains of anger in yourself since you were around nineteen years old. You feel a little sad, and you begin to pity yourself because you’re one for always experiencing unrequited love. You still feel incredibly awkward about these feelings for Richard but they aren’t remotely confrontational; not until this evening, anyway. You just hope that no one has witnessed you falling in love with Richard, but you’ve not been able to stop thinking about it. It was just there one day, and it was impossible to ignore.

 _Why are you making yourself feel worse about this?_ You have to ask yourself, and you have to assess how much you hate yourself in the dark recesses of your mind. You keep digging and digging violently into paper on the bottle you’re drinking, stabbing your cigarette at it to char the paper and in a way it’s a very cathartic activity, like pushing pins into a voodoo doll, you feel like you’re chipping away at the hatred you feel for yourself. And you light yourself another cigarette while the unrelenting images of Richard and that girl assault your retinas. You hate it. You wish you could just gouge your eyes out and pray that you never have to look on him again. You down more of the brown liquor and drain the bottle, throwing it to the ground in disgust. Another empty. You never thought you’d be the type of person to develop a problem with alcohol but it was slowly starting to look that way; possibly you’d begin having that brown milk on your cereal in the mornings, just to kick-start the day right. You just can’t stop thinking about them, and you know it’s ridiculous because there’s no way that Richard would ever love you, that is far too bizarre to believe, but you just keep thinking that maybe there was once a chance for the both of you to be something more than just housemates.

                You wonder to yourself if these intrusive thoughts of yours are a universal experience when under any amount of emotional distress. Compulsions and obsessions usually have to be the motor behind this kind of fixation, because that’s what this is; you’re obsessed with him. Right now, if he arrived, you’re certain your feelings would flow quite freely and you would tell him everything he wanted to know. But you’d really rather not face that problem right now. It makes you feel sick to think about this infidelity on his part. _That’s a stupid word to describe it_ you tell yourself. How can it be infidelity if there was nothing there to begin with? But you feel betrayed by him. You feel as though you’ve offered him so much, cared for him, been there for him and yet there he was, throwing that kindness back at you. You feel angry at yourself for feeling that way about this relationship. You didn’t begin caring for him upon his return from the west so that the two of you could be _together._ That was never anyone’s intention. But that doesn’t stop you feeling angry about it.

                The reality is hitting you full force, and you’re beginning to see that you don’t think you’re going to be able to get over this, to forgive him for this. It’s hardly his fault that he didn’t read into your non-existent signs and pick up just how in love with him you are, but you still feel like you’ve been cut far too deep for this wound to heal. You’ve seen so much from him. You’ve seen such a vulnerable sides to Richard that you cannot look back. You can no longer see him as that fresh-faced shop clerk, serving you cigarettes and bread so you and your daughter can feed the ducks. You might as well serve this fucked-up emotional breakdown to him on a platter because you’re fooling no one now. You’re angry, you’re heart broken and you’re depressed and now there is no point in keeping it all hidden anymore.

                When you wake from a restless, dreamless sleep, your neck is hurting and your cigarette sits between your fingers, burned all the way down, ash undisturbed. You’re amazed for a moment and move, destroying the tower of ash that sat there. Your head is pounding and it’s still dark, and while you’re aching and unhappy you decide to take yourself to bed.

                “You’re awake.” Comes his voice, and he’s sitting in the darkness opposite you, making you jump. His voice is so clear that you’re unsure of whether you’re actually dreaming or whether you’re awake. You look over at him and he looks serious; his face expressionless, his voice for that matter didn’t sound too happy either.

                “Jesus Christ Richard, you scared the shit out of me!”

                “I could say the same about you earlier.” He says sternly. “What is your problem, Till? Why did you act like such an arse hole this evening?”

                “Excuse me?” you frown, sitting up in your seat. “Me the arse hole? Are you sure?” you watch him, challenging him to answer you. In all the nuances of body language, Richard is making is abundantly clear that he has questions he’d like answered as soon as possible. But you have no reason to be explaining yourself to him; it’s none of his fucking business how you feel, not anymore. It’s in this sense of violation that those feeling of anger begin to rise up again and you can taste the acrid bitterness of bile in your throat, the rising acidic feeling in your chest, of both anger and an impending hangover.

                “Yes. You. You pretty much ignored me all evening when you knew I wanted to introduce you to Anita and then you storm off in such a foul mood. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

                You wish in all of God’s green earth that you could think of better replies to his aggression but your brain is slowed considerably by the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed and are attempting to burn off.

                “What is wrong with me?” you reply, “I wasn’t ignoring you, Richard. You were too busy with that woman to bother coming to speak to any of your friends this evening. And it was so fucking boring watching the two of you cuddle up all loved up that I just could take the fucking boredom of it all anymore!” you shout, rising from your chair, feeling a little dizzy. He stops, staring up at you realizing that you already know what’s n the tip of his tongue and that there’s nothing to be had in aggravating you with more humiliation. He clears his throat and stands, planting both his feet together, staring up at you.

                “Fine.” He says, and the gap between you is so small. What is wrong with me? You ask yourself as you imagine your angry self pushing him back onto that chair and fucking him senseless. But you can’t. You wouldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t do that to yourself. You stare him down from under furrowed brows. You’re not going to be the first to move. Fuck him if he thinks so. Luckily, he begins to move, pushing past you to the stairs. “I’m going to bed.” He growls. “hopefully you’ve got a better head on your shoulders when you wake up.”

                “I want you to move out.” You tell him bluntly, turning and watching him stop dead on the stairs, looking at you.

                “Seriously?”

                “You’ve got a week. I want you and everything gone. I don’t want you in my house anymore Richard.”

                “Bu-... Wait, hold on now, Till…” he comes back down the stairs towards you, his entire posture and body language changing. “You can’t be serious…?” And you’ve never hated yourself more. You know there was no need to demand this, but you can’t take it back now. “Y-you… You’re really going to make me homeless because of some stupid little argument?”

                “You’ve got a week.”

                He stares at you a moment longer, and you’re certain in the dim light of the room you’re in you can see the tears beginning to form in his eyes. He turns to leave you, back to the stairs.

                “You know, I’ve experienced cruelty, Till, but you’re the last person I expected this from. You can be a real fucking cunt, you know that?” his voice begins to break, and he wipes angrily at his eyes, stomping his way up the stairs. You’re rooted to the spot, unable to move, in complete disbelief of what you’ve just done. Moments later he returns and he’s got a large bag over his shoulder. He stares at you for a moment, daring you to take it back, but there’s something in you which won’t allow you to say you’re sorry, that you didn’t mean this, that you want him to stay. Instead, you just watch him leave and you are left alone again, just as you deserve.


	10. Chapter 10

                The spring has set in Germany and much of the winter’s snow has cleared around your house, the lake beginning to clear of ice and the birds are beginning to return home after a long winter away. The sun is shining, but the air is crisp and cold. You sit on your porch, soaking up the chill air on your skin, absorbing the rays of light as the sun rises up over the trees around the lake. Maybe you should go for a swim, wake yourself up, but you decide against that. It would exert too much energy that you don’t have. You attempt to reason with yourself, that life always seems a little better when you’re swimming, but you cannot bring yourself to get up from your seat and head into the cold.

                Quite frankly you’re a mess and there’s no good in sitting around sulking over something you did to yourself. You need a good talking to, someone to come and give you the hard truths of what you’ve done, someone to speak sense because all your brain is doing is switching from self-pity to self-loathing, or a sickening mixture of both at the same time, and you cannot for the life of you get those events from your mind.

                There are a lot of things that have happened in the past several weeks that have pushed you deeper into this abyss of sadness and you’re not able to visualize a freedom from it. You sit and you drink, and you smoke, and then you drink some more, and then you write a sad poem, you drink a little more until you fall asleep, and then you repeat the cycle. You can see yourself becoming the man you hated, but there is no way in fresh hell that you can stop yourself. _Like father like son._

                When you bury emotions deep inside yourself, but it’s not like anchoring a corpse down to be picked clean to the bone by bottom-feeders, it’s more like continually attempting to hide something behind your back, to keep it a secret from yourself and from everyone. If you cannot see it then the problem simply isn’t there. Psychology isn’t like most other sciences; there’s no hard, physical evidence to pick apart. Emotions don’t fit under microscopes. Sucked up in the mind’s tide, there are no scavengers to pick apart at the terrible memories you wish would disappear, nothing to devour those memories you wish gone. This isn’t like feeding bones to pigs, this just becomes something mutilated, something infectious, your fall-to-rock-bottom knocks it loose, and up, up it goes, floating to the surface as the hard evidence of your mental illness.

                You have asked that Nele spend more time with her mother and with your mother as you currently feel that your mental state is causing you to be unable to properly provide Nele with the care, both emotionally and physically, that she needs as a growing girl. She is growing into a beautiful young lady, and you want to give her the world but right now you cannot separate your feelings of self-loathing and disgust with your need to be a father, and quite frankly that is making you feel worse. You feel as though you’re letting her down and you’re unsure of how to rectify that. You’re unsure of a lot of things right now but you miss your daughter and the reprieve she offers you temporarily from your sadness. You know that she understands and that she loves you but there isn’t much you can do. You want so badly to see her, but you fear she will only remember you as this cretin that depression created, rather than as the father who brought her up to be the beautiful being she is.

                Taking yourself inside, you leaf again through all the writing you’ve completed in your drunken stupor, and read again the words you’ve written about your feelings for Richard. But they’re more than feelings now, it’s become and obsession, an addiction, and you cannot find a way to relieve yourself of the eternal itch in the back of the brain to stop yourself from thinking about him.

                And it’s damning.

                You’re so angry with yourself for being such a downright obnoxious arse hole that you cannot think of a way to make this right. You cannot think of how to fix this because you feel like sorry just isn’t enough. Sorry will not justify the cruelty you forced him to endure because of your own inability to deal with jealousy. But as you sit back you try to think about when this rift in your personality developed. You’d never been a jealous man before but now you are plagued with these thoughts and feelings of envy and inadequacy.

                 _She’s just so beautiful;_ even if Paul thinks otherwise, but you can’t get the image of the two of them from your mind. It’s etched into your retinas and he’s everything that you want and all the things that you cannot have. You attempt to analyse your own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, and you surrender to a sort of retrospective imagining of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘what-could-have-beens’ which are visualized in every facet of your life. It’s not even about imagining sex anymore; its domestic cravings that you have at this moment that you begin to question your own sanity, as well as your masculinity. But it comes down to one thing and one thing only, and it is this; _you are a lonely soul._

                You are cold and damp with sweat, rubbing at your nose as the fleeting images speak quietly in the back of your mind. You squint, trying to block out the natural daylight so that you can fall into a deep sleep and attempt to alleviate the depression from yourself for a few hours at the very least. Your head is throbbing; feverish warm and you are feeling sick to your stomach, like a pill stuck in your throat, the bile rises. Your back is tender and your knees are aching from inactivity brought on by a bout of deep-depression. You squirm in your chair to make yourself feel a little more comfortable until you wiggle your way out of your chair and lay yourself down on the ground to ease the tension; the physical embodiment of hitting rock bottom.

                You stretch on the ground, cringing and shrinking away from the burn on the small of your back from slouching in your chair, feeling like you’ve pour alcohol into an open wound and it’s dizzying. Your dreams are gone and sleep eludes you but your mind’s eye won’t allow you to forget. There is an unnamable shame growing in your gut, burrowing into your system. You feel guilty, more than anything; disgusting; and you wish you could forget why, or do something that would stop this internal conflict.

                You thought you were over this. You thought that all the ridicule and harassment growing up had scraped away your thin skin—that it was with that damage and pain that you formed a tough hide of scar-tissue. You thought you'd been made prematurely stronger from being thrust into a much more abrasive environment of gender roles and identity—that you were the one that had the armour. But now you feel it. You get it. There are outsiders loitering in your business. Not strangers, not close friends, but people you still care for, whose opinions matter to you. They're in your emotions and on your territory, and somehow you’re worried about how they'll see it and whether or not they'll feel distaste and reject you for it. Regret has taken hold of you, but you’re not even sure of what for.

                And with that thought, there is a knock on the door, and you don’t really want to answer. Maybe if you just keep quiet they’ll go awa-

                 “Till, I know you’re home, open the fucking door.”

                You sigh at the sound of Paul’s voice travelling through the door and you wipe at your face. You slowly get to your feet and make your way to the door, looking at him through the glass panel.

                 “Are you going to let me in?” He asks, frowning at you, his hands pressed against the glass. It’s starting to warm up outside but it’s still cold and the tip of his nose and his cheeks have turned pink. “Till, are you sleep-walking again?”

                You reach forward and pull the door open, letting Paul in and he barges past you, heading straight for the kitchen. He wastes no time, putting the kettle onto the stove to boil and set to making two large cups of coffee.

                “I can smell the booze on you from here. Have you eaten anything in the last two weeks?” Paul asks.

                “What’re you doing here?” you ask him, and he stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you.

                “No one’s heard from you since you kicked Richard out, which he is still fuming about by the way, and I’m the only one brave enough to come by and see if you’re still alive.” He said quite nonchalantly, and a part of you felt sad by this.

                “I didn’t think anyone cared enough.” You reply, turning to take a seat at the kitchen table. “You’re all his friends anyway, why care about me?” 

                “That isn’t quite how friendship works, Till.” Paul explained, placing a cup in front of you, the smell of coffee igniting hunger in your belly. “Do you have any food in the house?” Paul asked, “I’m starving. It’s a long way from Berlin to here you know.”  
  
                “There’s some bread, I think; maybe some cheese. Whatever was left here from before.” You concede. You’re unsure about what’s in your house because you’ve not really bothered to check. You’ve not been out shopping, you’ve pretty much drunk the house dry and the only thing left is for you to run out of food. But you don’t really care, ultimately. You’ve reached a point now where you’re not bothered about what happens to you.

                “Till, you need to sort yourself out.” Paul says quietly, taking a seat opposite you. “I don’t know if you’ve looked at yourself recently, but you’re a fucking mess.” Paul was very calm. “You’ve holed yourself up here for long enough, sulking over something you did and quite frankly this argument between the two of you is fucking ridiculous.”

                “Paul, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” You sigh, downing some of your coffee in a large gulp. “You don’t understand why I asked him to move o-…”

                “Well you didn’t exactly ask, did you?” Paul interrupted, “In fact, from what he’s told me, you were drunk and rude and demanded that he leave despite knowing he had no where else to go.”

                “Yeah well he could have gone and stayed with that new girlfriend of his.” You reply belligerently.

                “Yeah remember when I said they weren’t going to last? I wasn’t wrong.” He said softly, “He’s been on our couch in Berlin and he’s like a wet rag. He’s so angry at you but so depressed because he doesn’t know what he did wrong. He doesn’t know why you don’t want to be his friend anymore.”

                “Yeah, he’ll get over it.”

                “That’s not a good enough response.” Paul frowns, leaning in a little closer. “What happened between the two of you that caused all this?”

                “It’s none of your business, Paul.”

                “Well it became my business when he started hogging our couch and bitching about you all the time. Honestly, I’m sick of hearing about you. He’s obsessed. He will literally take any opportunity to talk about you.” Paul explains, and your ears prick up at that. “So can you just go and apologise to him?”

                “It’s too late for that now. He won’t accept any apology I have to offer even if I had one.” You admit, and you know that you’re lying. You want him back in your life more than anything in the world. Everything began falling apart when you forced him to move out. “Just go back to Berlin Paul. I need to get things done today.”

                “Like going to buy more whiskey and drinking yourself to death and sit here alone with no one to make you feel better? No thank you. Go and get dressed. You’re coming back to Berlin with me now.”

                “Paul, stop it.” You growl, getting to your feet. “I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to go to Berlin, and I don’t really want to see you either.” You get to your feet and pull open the front door. “So can you go please?”  
  
                He gets to his feet and walks over to you, slowly pushing the door closed. “Not until you tell me what’s really going on. So go and sit down, I will make you some sober up food with whatever is in this house and then we will talk properly about this because if I go back to Berlin this evening without a resolution, Flake is going to murder me. And then you. So you’ve got cooking time to think of an explanation.” He offers, stripping himself of his coat and hat before lighting a fire in your living room to warm the house up and sets to making some breakfast for the pair of you.

                You sit in silence as he moves around the kitchen, looking around for an escape route. Maybe a swim would be a good idea right now. His train has to be at some point this evening so if you just waste his time then maybe he’ll go home without knowing anything and they all will be well and he’ll leave you alone? But then you know how persistent he is. You’ve met him several times and you have watched him respectfully persist with beautiful women, impressing them and charming them until they give him a number, or a kiss, or whatever it is he’s looking for that evening.

                “So?” he breaks the silence and your thoughts, putting down a large plate of fried food down in front of you.

                “Where the hell did you find eggs?” you ask, looking puzzled. You were sure there was nothing edible in this kitchen.

                “A magician never reveals his secrets, my friend. Now eat, and then begin the confessional. I am listening to forgive you of your sins.” He grins, digging into his plate of fried eggs and cold meats. He truly was amazing sometimes. You too begin to eat, and the taste and texture of the food turns your stomach; not because it’s bad food but because you’ve been on almost exclusively liquids for a good few days. You groan softly, looking around at him happily munching away at a piece of toast and persevere. _This will make me feel better. This will make me feel more human._

                “So what happened between you and Richard then?” He asks again and you know silence isn’t going to work.

                “Paul it’s very complicated. Can we just not. I don’t really want to discuss it please, okay?”

                “Wrong answer. Till, come on. It’ll make you feel better about it and then it’ll be easier to apologise and then everything will be better, okay? So what happened?” he presses, sipping at his coffee.

                There’s too much pressure right now and the amount of alcohol in your system is causing your brain to function far slower than it normally does. You’re sweating, you feel weak and you want to throw up. This can’t all be anxiety of telling Paul, what, how you feel about Richard. Do you have to tell him?   Can’t you just tell him all the other stuff, minus the bit where you’re in love with him?

                “I was just sick of how ungrateful he is.” You admit, which is half a lie, and you know it. “He disappeared, and came back without a word, terrified my daughter half to death with his nightmares, treats my house like a fucking hotel, I mean what really is there to not be angry about?” you tell Paul, but the look on his face is otherwise unconvinced.

                “Oh really?” he says softly, putting down his fork and his cup, staring at you across the table. “You know that Richard is like an open book, right? I know all about you two in the night, you comforting him after his nightmares… I know about you building him back up to being a functional human being. I know all about the two of you and what you did in this house.” Paul says in an accusatory tone. “You were basically married except he wasn’t sucking your dick so don’t take that with me.” Paul frowned. “Why did you really make him leave?”

                “Paul, please stop it.” You say quietly.  
  
                “No I’m fairly sure I can guess. Let me guess!” he sits back.

                “Paul."

                “Richard’s in love with you, so you made him move out because that made you uncomfortable?” he offered, and your heart stopped. Had Richard admitted that to him? “No wait, that’s not right. He loves you but he hadn’t admitted that to you yet.”

                “What?”

                “Maybe he just wasn’t giving you enough money for rent or something, or maybe his pining after you was all getting a bit too much for you?”

                “Paul stop a minute.” You interrupt, feeling more alert and awake than you have in weeks. “He’s in love with me?” you say, “W-what? Did he tell you that?”

                Paul’s grin is a mile wide as he gets to his feet. “Or maybe you made him move out because you’re in love with him and his new girlfriend was making you jealous.”

                You stop then, staring up at him.

                “Aha! I’ve got it! I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!” he grinned, holding out his hand to you. “You’re in love with him! And he’s in love with you! And he thought you weren’t interested so he got a girlfriend to make himself feel better which made you feel worse! You two are such morons!” Paul laughed. “Till, you’re such an idiot, you know that?”

                “Paul, stop. Are you being serious? He’s in love with me?” Your heart sinks. You realise now you’ve made a mistake, a terrible mistake.

                “Admit you love him and I’ll tell you the truth.” Paul grins.

                “Paul, stop being a dick.”  
  
                “Admit it!” He frowns. “Say it out loud and make yourself feel better!”  
  
                “Fine!” you growl, “I fell in love with him, okay?”

                He watches in silence for a moment, making sure you’re not going to hit him for anything he’s about to say. “I wasn’t lying.” He tells you, smiling. “He fell for you too, but he thought you weren’t interested. He just thought he’d misread you being caring and tried to get over it.”

                “But that makes no sense…”

                “It makes so much sense when you factor in what utter morons the two of you are.”

                You sit in silence for a moment, staring at the half-eaten plate of food in front of you. You’ve been a fool. You’ve been so blinded by your own anxieties to notice his actual feelings. You feel like an idiot and you put your head in your hands. Your heart feels lighter knowing that he feels the same about you as you do about him, allaying any fears that you had about him not loving you. But isn’t it too late now? He already thinks you’re an arse hole, so you’re never going to be able to fix this.

                “So will you come back to Berlin now and see him? And apologise?” he said softly.

                “I’ve made such a fool of myself.” You admit, putting your head in your hands, groaning softly. “I can’t see him. He hates me, remember?”

                “No he doesn’t… He’s just a bit heartbroken, that’s all, like a puppy that’s been kicked. He’ll be fine when you get there!” Paul smiled. “Go and get dressed. I’ll drive us because I’m sure you’re still over the limit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Apparently it's a widely known fact that pigs are good for destroying murdered bodies because they will eat everything, including human bones. This in reference to Till's depressive thoughts but use this information how you so please (:


	11. Chapter 11

               It takes all of your strength to put yourself in that car to drive down to Berlin. You already feel anxious at the prospect of being driven around by Paul. You saw him driving up in that battered hippy van, and that looked worse for wear, and you’re hoping that’s not because of his driving skills. You slam the car door behind you and Paul follows suit. You are still fairly drunk, and you thank the heavens you’re sitting down right now because if you weren’t you’re sure you’d fall flat on your arse. You look over and examine Paul, who is usually in some form of intoxication but right now he looks squeaky clean and bright eyed. It’s highly unusual for him, especially at this time of the day. You’re totally not ready for this. 

              “I can’t go through with this…”  
  
               “Fuck you Till, yes you can. Plus I’ve already started driving now so it’s too late. You’ll just have to forget about pussying out.” He said sternly, and the car judders painfully as he changes gear.

               “Well while you’re being a dick can you try to not break my car please?”

               “Again, fuck you Till I can totally drive fine.”

               “ _Right, yes… Okay.”_ You tell yourself, curling up in your seat, fiddling with the seat belt to make yourself more comfortable. As you close your eyes, you slowly drift off into an uncomfortable sleep. You dream of how this encounter is going to go. At first, in your mind, he’s waiting for you, and the two of you are left alone. But he’s harsh and unforgiving, berating you for how you feel and calling you worthless, unlovable, all of those feelings you know about yourself to be true. And you slowly drift out of that, not opening your eyes but waking yourself to get out of that nightmare. As you drift off once more, you see him with others, other women, other men, laughing and enjoying their company, and as you get closer, all of the colour drains from the dream and you bring a black cloud over everyone. He tells you to leave, that he never wants to see you again, that you’re nothing to him anymore, that Paul had lied to get you here to humiliate you. But this time you can’t wake, and you’re faced with a room of people telling you how worthless you are, how unlovable you have become, how even your daughter doesn’t love you anymore, how to abandoned her and she resents you for the piece of shit father you are.

               You wake slowly, groggily, feeling as though your head is completely submerged underwater, words of hatred ringing clearly in your ears still. There’s a sickness pounding at the walls of your stomach and it’s getting worse. You groan softly, and the slow acrid burn of bile rising in your chest hits you. You turn to see Paul still driving, humming along to whatever is on the radio that sounds far too loud and far too fuzzy for you to recognize what it is.

               “Where are we?” you groan, looking over at him, trying to straighten yourself up in your seat. Moving makes the vomit shift in your stomach, and you’re sure you’re going to hurl, because in all of human history, no one has successfully swallowed vomit down. “No wait, I don’t care… Pull over.”  
  
               “I can’t… We’re on the autobahn… I can’t pull over!” he frowns, “What’s wrong?”

               “I’m going to vomit. Pull over.”  
  
               “I can’t.” He emphasises. “Roll the window down or something. I can’t pull over Till, “I’m doing seventy right now.”

               It isn’t going to wait. You can feel that horrid dryness in the back of your throat, your mouth feels as if you’ve been licking carpet for three hours, and the nausea in your stomach is going straight to your head, making you feel dizzy. You have no choice. He can’t stop. It’s against the law. You roll down the window, the motion of doing so making you feel the need to vomit more and just in time, you stick your head out the window to empty the contents of your stomach down the side of your already filthy Trabant.

               In the strange ways that thoughts work, you haven’t vomited in the longest of times and you’re troubled at the fact that you’re thinking of this now, as you lean out the passenger’s side of your own car, vomiting into the wind. When you feel as though you’re done, you slowly come back inside the car, rolling the window up. You rest your forehead against the cool glass for a moment, trying to catch your breath, making sure that no more vomit will leave your body.  
  
               “ _Wasser._ ” You demand, looking to Paul, “Now. I need water.”

               “This is your car, my friend. If there’s any water you’re the one to know where it is!”

               “Please stop being so cheery, It’s hurting me.” You tell him, and he laughs, reaching over to rub your shoulder.

               “My friend I can never not be cheery.” He tells you, grinning as he does so. “It’s in my DNA to be irritatingly happy all the time. In fact I’m not even super cheery all the time. It’s just because everyone else is on such a downer that it emphasizes my optimism. You know you should really try things like meditation and this new thing called yoga from India? Aljoshca was telling me about! He just got back from Asia a few days ago and hasn’t stopped talking about this yoga exerc-…”

              “Paul, please stop talking. My brain is full up now. Please. Stop.”

               He stares straight ahead at the road for a while in silence. “ _Tut mir leid._ ” He tells you, “I get carried away. And you’ve been asleep for like an hour and a half and I’ve had no one to talk to.” He sighs, “Honestly I was so close to waking you up because I felt like I was going to explode! Have you ever not been able to talk for so long? I mean it’s almo-…”

               “Paul. Please.”

                “Sorry.” He seems sad now, defeated. You know he wants to speak but you really need him not to.

               The rest of the journey seems to go fairly smoothly, and silently, as Paul seemed to get the hint that you didn’t really want to listen to him speaking. You spend some time thinking about how you’re going to approach Richard and talk to him about your feelings. You’ve never been openly affectionate with anyone, and your last, and only, relationship ended in disaster, so you have every right to feel a little apprehensive.

               You arrive at the familiar block of apartments where Paul and Flake live, and you just know you’re going to have to walk up seven flights of stairs, which is killer. You sit in silence in the car for a moment, just parked in front of the high rise before you feel Paul’s hand on yours, “He’s waiting for you upstairs, you know? Maybe we should go up?”  
  
               “Is the elevator working?”

               “Till, God is not on your side today; seven flights of stairs. I promise not to talk the whole way up. We don’t want Richard to know we’re coming.”

               That sent your stomach twisting onto knots. “Sorry. Can you say that final bit again?" 

               “Oh, did I forget to tell you? Silly me!” he laughs, “Yeah I didn’t tell Richard I was coming to get you so he has no idea you’re here. Come on! Let’s go!”

               “No. Fucking. Way. Paul Landers you set me up!” you growl, feeling another wave of nausea hit you, sending you flopping back into your seat. “I can’t do it! I can’t go up there! He doesn’t want me here!”

               “Well you’re probably still over the limit to drive so unless you plan on waiting in your car I suggest you at least come up to get sober? I don’t even know if he’s home? He might be with Die Firma right now?" 

              “You said might so I’ll stay in the car.” You say, and that’s final. There’s no way you can go up there. He might be there and you know he hates you, so why go up there when you’re not in any fit state to argue.

                “Till. Stop being a pussy. Get up those stairs.” He says, and for some reason, unbeknown to yourself, you do what he tells you, getting out of the car. You slowly climb the stairs with him, and he keeps his promise as you walk up them in silence together. “Go sit in my room for now, I’ll let him know you’re here.” He tells you as you walk into the familiar apartment. You can hear him strumming away on a guitar somewhere in the apartment and you do as you’re told.  
  
               You can hear Paul talking to Richard, and footsteps coming towards the room, before Richard stumbles headfirst through the door, falling to the bed, turning to look back at the door.

               “Paul you little bitch! I’ll fucking kill you!” he shouts, but Paul slams the bedroom door, and you hear Flake coming to assist Paul, holding the door closed as the key is turned in the lock. “Open this fucking door Paul. I will fucking kill you!”

                “Not until you two talk this through!” Comes Paul’s muffled voice through the wooden barrier. “Flake and I need you two to sort this out now.”

                “Two of us?” Richard says softly, before turning around to see you. It occurs to you then that he hadn’t noticed you in the room before and he stares at you in silence, rooted to the spot, unable really to move.

                “Hallo Risch.” You say softly, and you realise now how sick you feel. “Paul forced me to come here too… under false pretenses.”

                “Yeah? And what was that? More booze for you to inhale?” 

               That hurts, but it’s totally not unwarranted. You look down at your feet and slowly take a seat on the bed, putting your head in your hands. “No, but it might as well have been. I feel like a right idiot being here.” You tell him, groaning softly. “You know he made me vomit out the window of my own car because he refused to pull over.”

               “Why are you really here?” He asks you. “It’s not to discuss your hangover. So what do you want?”

               You realise that Richard has no idea why Paul has brought you here, or about your feelings for him and has no idea that he might have feelings for you. “I… I don’t really know.” You say quietly, looking down into your lap. “Paul turned up at my house this morning and dragged me here against my will.”

               “So you didn’t come here to see me?” he stares at you, narrowing his eyes. He’s trying to scope you out, work out what you’re doing here and why you’re acting the way you are. “Because you might as well just go home.”  
  
               “He brought me here knowing I’d still be over the legal limit to drive home.”

               “Paul Landers, if you’re out there, know that these are your last few hours on this planet.” Richard hissed through the door.

                “Well then you’re definitely staying in there, Arschloch. I’m the one with the key!” Paul sounded so satisfied with himself at that moment, until there was a small scream as Richard punched the wooden barrier.

                “I will break this fucking door down!”

                “Just talk to him you fucking idiot! Till, stop being a pussy!” Paul called, and you can hear Flake saying something to Paul along the lines of being dead as a doornail. “Richard! Ask him why he kicked you out! Do it!”

                He turns then to look at you. “I bet there’s some real hilarious story there, right? You and him had a right good laugh about it on the way down here?”  
  
               “No, Richard. It’s not like that at all. It’s pretty complicated actually, mostly culminating in me admitting that I was horrible to you.” You sigh, swallowing your pride. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to do that to you.”  
  
               “Yes but that doesn’t answer why.” He growls. He’s not really moved away from the door, just kind of spinning around between looking at you and threatening Paul. You know he’s uncomfortable with this because you are too. You want nothing more than to get out, but you feel far too defeated now to try and break through the door and escape.

                “There was so much, really. So many different reasons why I needed you to move out, but I went about it totally in the wrong way.” You get to your feet to face him fully. “I shouldn’t have said it on an argument, for a start. I should have helped you out, to get you a new place. I did it all wrong, and I regretted it as soon as I said it to you.”

                “Yes, okay. But why? What are some of these fucking reasons.”

                You stare at him then, biting you lip in contemplation of how to form an answer. You know two things to be true; You are in love with Richard, and Paul is a fucking liar. You aren’t sure whether you can fully trust Paul’s assertion that Richard reciprocates your feelings, and therefore it becomes painfully awkward admitting them as you aren’t fully aware of whether he really does feel the way Paul has told you. You don’t really know what to do. Do you lie? Do you tell him about how depressed you’d become of late and how you needed to be alone? It wasn’t wholly a lie, but it wasn’t the reason you made him move out. Or do you come out with it and admit that you love him? Do you tell him how he makes you feel? How you miss and crave the intimacy that the pair of you had during his terrible nights? How you miss holding him tightly in your arms, the feel of his heated skin against yours, bare chest against bare chest, clinging to each other in the night?  
  
               “I just needed you to leave, Richard.” You tell him. “I don’t really want to explain the reasons why. I really, really can’t imagine anything worse than divulging all this bile in my brain at you. I’m sorry. I really am.”

                “That’s not good enough.” He growls, beginning to pace now, still staying away from you. “You were so cruel. You made me homeless. You were just… How could you do that to me, Till? I thought we were friends?” he looks up, and there it is. He’s obviously very hurt by what’s happened, what you’ve done, and you are the only person who can make this right. He’s never going to fully forgive you, and you accept that. “I deserve an explanation as to why you were such a cunt.” He frowns, and you know he’s right. You take a seat then, really trying to think of how best to word your response.  
  
               “I need a minute to think. Please, Richard.”  
  
               “So you can think up more lies to tell me? More bullshit?” His tone is so aggressive. You don’t like him like this.  
  
               “No, Richard. Not at all.”

                “It fucking is! Just come out and fucking say it Till! What’s the big deal? You might as well if it’s going to get us out of here quicker so we can both move on. You can go back to Schwerin and drink yourself into an early fucking grave and I can move on here in Berlin. So what the fuck made yo-…”  
  
               “Richard I am in love with you.” You tell him, interrupting him, your voice calm. He stops dead in his tracks then, staring down at you, and you hear Paul pushing Flake behind the door to get a better position to hear.  
  
               “Sorry, what did you just say?”  
  
               “I said,” You sigh, looking down at the floor then, “That I love you. I started noticing how I felt about you around the time you left us here and went to the west. And then you came back and I knew for sure.”  
  
               “I don’t believe you.”  
  
               “Remember your girlfriend that night I asked you to leave? I got so jealous. I felt it deep inside my chest. I knew, and I hated myself, but I was so envious, watched her being so close to you, kissing you, touching you. I was so jealous.” You look up at him then, and he looks puzzled. “I had to go home. That’s why I left. And then you came home, and that was it. It was like a red rag to a bull. I was an idiot but it’s because I couldn’t handle how I felt about you, knowing you don’t feel the same way.”  
  
               He’s silent for a moment, looking down at you. “Paul, you can open the door now. I’ve told him.” You call out, and you hear the two fighting over whether to unlock the door or not.  
  
               “No!” Called out Paul “It’s not resolved. Telling him isn’t enough. You two still aren’t friends yet!” You look up at Richard and offer an apologetic smile, the sickness in your stomach subsiding a little. You feel as though a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. You feel lighter; admitting your feelings did help, really.  
  
               “Anyway, then you left, and I got really depressed, so Nele went to live with her mother because I couldn’t sort myself out enough to look after her. And here we are,” you tell him. You feel as though the floodgates are opened. You feel like you could tell him anything now. You want to tell him everything but decide to hold back. He doesn’t need more put on him than this. Finding out someone loves you is enough. But he’s very silent, and that’s problematic for you, his face expressionless.

               “Richard. Please say something.”  
  
               “You thin-… Wait. Hold on.” He says softly, “Are you being serious?”  
  
                “Very serious.”  
  
             “Till, I need to think about this. I… I don’t really know what to say.” He looks worried, wringing his hands together anxiously.

 _Great._ “No, it’s fine. Take all the time you need. I mean, I’ve wai-…”  
  
               “But I got home months ago. Almost nine months ago. Really? Like… You’ve held this in for that long?” He takes a seat on the bed next to you, staring at you, “Why didn’t you just tell me? What did you think was going to happen?” He’s frowning at you, his brows furrowed more in worry than in anger. You’ve missed talking to him, being this close to him. You’ve missed him.

               “I don’t know…” You tell him, sighing gently, rubbing at your eyes with the balls of your hands. “I thought you’d probably think I was some kind of weirdo and leave me…”  
  
               “So you made me leave before I could leave you?” he frowns. “I mean it was a real dickish thing to do.”  
  
               You think carefully about your words now, knowing that this is a very delicate situation the two of you are in. “It was like that, in a way.” You say softly. “When every relationship you’ve put yourself into ends in disaster, you want to be certain you’re in control of the disaster that’s coming at you. I just took the preemptive leap, like an idiot, and cut you off without really thinking about what I was doing.” You admit, feeling better now. You feel more at ease discussing this with him, and he seems to at least understand a little with what you’re trying to explain to him.  
  
               “You’re an idiot.” He says calmly, smiling then, his face softening a little.  
  
               “I never really act impulsively, but bath tub vodka does terrible things to a person.”  
  
               “If you drank that shit then you’re definitely an idiot, Till.” He laughs then, sighing softly.  
  
               “I’m sorry I made you move out.” You apologise, “I let me ego get the better of me.”  
  
               “It’s okay. I forgive you.”  
  
               “Richard, tell him how you feel!” Paul calls from behind the door, and you can hear the smile in his voice, knowing that he’s fixed something. You long for his optimism. But you turn and look at Richard, eyebrow raised.  
  
               “I’ll fucking kill him.” Richard groans, falling back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his hands.  
  
               The two of you laugh then, and you watch him for a moment. “What does he mean?” you ask, biting at the inside of your lip anxiously. He is hesitant, just as you were, which means he’s either going to admit that he loves you and destroy everything you thought about yourself, or he is going to tell you that he only loves you as a friend. He sits up, looking at you, his face expressionless for a moment.  
  
               “Well, you see… the thing is…” He stops, looking up at you. “Oh fuck it.” He groans, leaning forward and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s rough and possessive and you reach up to cup his cheek. He pulls away, and you can see he’s trying to hide a look of disgust on his face, which sends your heart plummeting to the floor.  
  
               “Till, why do you taste like vomit?” he says, alarmed, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. You laugh then, feeling better about the look on his face, gently rubbing his shoulder.  
  
               “Remember earlier when I told you I’d vomited out of the passenger’s window of the Trabant?”


	12. Chapter 12

               “I don’t really know what to do now…”

               He’s got you stumped. You’re uncertain as to what to do now as well. He looks at you for a moment, and the pair of you hear the lock in the door click open, leaving it for the pair of you to exit when you wanted to.  
  
               “I’m unsure also.” You tell him, gently taking his hand in yours. You’ve craved for this intimacy, for this closeness with him, and here it is at least. But you’re like a dog that has finally caught up with the cat; you don’t know what to do with yourself. “But I do know I need to brush my teeth, or at the very least drink some water.” In the distance, you hear the front door close and you know that the two of you are alone.  
  
               “They’ve gone out.” He comments, biting at his lip.  
  
               “Let me go and get some water and wash my mouth out. I need to stop tasting vomit for a moment before we continue.” You tell him, slowly getting to your feet. You don’t want to leave him, but it’s necessary for anything further to happen. You decide then to leave him then, looking around on your way to the kitchen and there’s no one to be seen; the flat completely silent.  
  
               Pouring yourself a large glass of water, you rinse your mouth out with a little before downing the rest. You feel a pressure against your back, gently pressing you into the counter, and he’s behind you. He gently presses his lips against the back of your neck, and it sends every hair on your body standing on end.  
  
               “Richard.” You say softly, and this doesn’t stop him. “Richard, wait…” You repeat, slowly turning to look down at him. You take him in for a moment, “I want us to wait. I don’t want to rush this.” You see the impatience growing in his features, and he bits his lip, slowly stepping away from you.  
  
               “Okay. I’ll wait.”  
  
               “No, believe me, Richard. I would happily take you into the bedroom right now but it doesn’t feel right yet. I want to do this properly.”  
  
               He smiles at you then, nodding and takes your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers. “Whatever you want. I can wait. Hell, we’ve waited long enough, right? What’s a while longer?” You both laugh, and he moves in close to you once more. He doesn’t want to let you go just as much as you don’t want to lose him. He rests his head against your chest and the two of you stand there, holding one another for a while longer.  
  
               “I can feel a hangover coming.” You tell him, slowly moving away. He looks up at you and takes both your hands in his. “Let’s go and nap, hmm? I’ve not slept properly in days.”  
  
               It’s familiar, warm and cosy as the two of you curl up together in his bed, Richard resting his head against your chest, arms wrapped tightly around one another. This is a situation the two of you have found yourself in several times, but it feels different now. Everything feels fresh and new and beautiful.  
  
               “Please don’t vomit on me.” He says softly, sighing contentedly and you cannot help but laugh.  
  
               “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

It takes him four days to kiss you once more, seeing as a vomit-y tasting mouth ruined the last one.  
  
               He moves back to Schwerin with you for a while, helping you to make the house an acceptable living space once more. He helped you clear your living room and do all the washing, and it was all very domestic of the two of you. And at night, you’d take yourselves off to your separate bedrooms, but end up waking up tangled together in the morning. Richard would always crawl into your bed while you’re still asleep and you’d wake to him pressed tight against your body, not a nightmare in sight. But this wasn’t where he kissed you.  
  
               You both sat at the breakfast table, Richard picking at some toast and eggs, you drinking black coffee with two sugars. It’s all very domestic, very pastoral. He pushes an almost empty plate away from him and settles back, picking up his book as he frowns at the pages, concentrating intently on what he’s reading. It must be interesting and you remind yourself to ask him to borrow it once he’s finished. You down the last of your coffee and move to pick up his plate and yours, going to wash them up.  
  
               You fill the sink with hot water, beginning to wash up all the dirty plates, cups and pans. You hear his chair scrape on the stone floor and smile as his footsteps come closer to you, his hands gently gripping your hips.  
  
               “Till?” he asks, gently pressing a soft kiss to the back of neck.  
  
               “Richard.”  
  
               “Have you brushed your teeth?”  
  
               You turn then, hands still dripping in dish suds as you look at him. “What?”  
  
                 “Have you brushed your teeth this morning?”  
  
               “Yes, why?”  
  
               He smiles then, moving forward and kisses you then, and it is soft and he moves so close to you. You grip his cheeks then, pulling him a little deeper and he laughs before moving away, wiping at his face.  
  
               “I just didn’t want to kiss vomit breath again.” He grins, wiping the last of the suds from his face. He smiles then, slowly turning away from you and picking up his book. “I’m going to nap. I assumed you’re going to do some baskets before the day is done?”  
  
               “I will. I’ll come and find you once I’ve finished, okay?”  
  
               “I look forward for it.” He smiles and you watch him make his way up the stairs to bed.

 

* * *

 

               It’s late in the afternoon when you finally finish the commissions you needed to get done. You feel like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders and you think now, for once, you’re contented with how your life is currently running. He’s home and for once, the two of you are completely honest with one another about how you feel and it’s amazing. You’re both in love, though you’ve yet to actually say the words out loud, and it’s blindingly obvious to anyone who sees the two of you together. 

  
               The house is silent when you get home, and you enter the front door to see no signs of life around you.  It’s a little cold, but the fire hasn’t been burning and you assume it’s because Richard is still asleep in his room.  He has been reading a lot recently and falling asleep in bed while doing so and it’s become something you love to watch.  It’s that kind of sweet, private, pastoral moment between the two of you when you look over and see him asleep with his book splayed open on his chest at the last page he read to.  You get this warm sense of endearment towards him as you gently take the book from his hands and dog-ear the page for him to carry on the next night. He always stirs in the same way, groaning softly and his hands grab at the sheets where the book once was before he turns and curls up on his side so very, very close to you.  Richard always falls asleep first. 

                You have to search for him, and this is a regular occurrence in your household now days, and you know it’ll become more and more frequent now the two of you are living in the same space once again.  Usually, if he goes to nap, he’ll be in his room, so that’s always a safe place to start.  You slowly make your way up the stairs, feeling the air grow a little warmer.  You gently push his bedroom door open to find his bed empty, and you frown as you look around, unable to see any signs of him having been in here.  You know he’s still at home because his boots are still by the front door.  You stop and listen for a moment, hearing no signs of the shower running or any other human noises from around the house and you decide to check your own room. 

                You find him there, curled up in your bed, book laying open on the same page from the night before.  You look over him, slowly crawling up the bed towards him and lay yourself with him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  He groans softly, his body migrating towards the new source of warmth close to him and he curls up against your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist.  You can’t tell if he’s woken up to do so, but what you do know is that this is the type of affection you had craved for so long and you finally have it.  

 

* * *

 

               Something about the situation you’re in and it all feels very familiar. You feel a familiar weight upon your body that you have experienced before. There is no knock on your door this time, but as you look down you see him in your arms, eyes wide and awake.

               “I can’t sleep anymore…” He tells you, and you feel him flexing his muscles under your hands to wake himself a little more, groaning as he rests his face against your chest. “Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks, gently kissing your skin. This felt far more normal than the last time your dream happened like this. You can’t stop looking at him, gently running your hand over his cheek.  
  
               “Till?” his voice is soft, and there’s a slight frown on his face. “Are you okay?”

               “Sorry, no. You didn’t wake me. I’m okay.” You tell him, and you press a soft kiss to his forehead. Everything felt so warm and right. You pull him a little closer to your body, taking in the warmth he had to offer. This feels so real and warm in your arms, and its all the better because he’s really here outside of your mind, in your arms asleep with you.  
  
               “Oh good.” He smiles, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist, “I haven’t had any nightmares in the longest time.” He tells you, “I think a lot of it had to do with anxiety about this, but I think it’s all settled now.” He says softly, looking up at you. The two of you spend a moment lying together, wrapped in your sheets. You sigh softly, lying still for a moment longer, groaning as you stretch.  
  
               “Shower…” You tell him, and he agrees, slowly pulling himself to his feet, offering his hand to you. You take it, looking Richard up and down and realise he’s coming to the shower with you. He walks with you to the bathroom, and he begins stripping off on the way, dropping clothes as he goes. He is all long lines and lean muscles and you want to reach out and touch them. He’s got beautiful broad shoulders, and as he drops his jeans, you take a moment to admire his shape, how his body moves. You’ve seen him naked plenty of times, and he you, but this is different. His body holds so much promise now and it’s all you want in your life at this moment. He turns to look at you once he’s turned the water on in the shower, smiling. “You’re still fully dressed, Till. You can’t shower when you’re fully clothed.” He moves towards you, helping you pull your shirt over your head, his hands catching your skin as he did so. He doesn’t hesitate, moving forward to plant a soft kiss to your chest. All you want is to be with him all the time.  
  
               No one would understand how much you love Richard. As you step into the shower with him, the warm water rushing over you, you know that you will never feel the same about anyone as you do about Richard. He is, in your opinion, your first real love, and that’s all that matters right now. He owns your heart; every inch of your flesh and soul was his. For a while, the two of you stand under the water, letting the warmth wash over you, holding one another close. Richard presses his ear to your chest, listening to the sound of your heart beating, and his breathing slows to match yours. He slowly pulls away, for gentle, attentive cleaning, rubbing soap into warm skin to clean the day from it, rinsing off, before Richard wraps his arms back around you, assuming his position against your chest. You gently run your hands over Richard’s body, sliding up into his wet hair. You grip at the strands, manoeuvring his head into position, pressing a hot, rough kiss to his lips. There is a low growl emitted from his throat, and his hands grip tightly at your skin, holding you close to him. This is probably the most intimate the two of you have been since you met, and it is necessary. You both need this, to get this out of your system. It’s been a long time coming and it needs to happen. You can feel Richard pressed against your thigh, half hard and signalling that this is exactly what he wants right now, and you become aware of your own erection catching the wet flesh of his hip. Richard runs his hands down over you, gently pulling your hips closer together, gently running his thumbs over your hip bones protruding beneath the skin, feeling round to squeeze at your bum. You cannot help but groan, and a buck your hips at the squeeze, making Richard smile. “What do you want to do?” Richard purred, kissing down over your throat, over your chest, letting his tongue swirl around your nipple. “Tell me. Shall we go back to bed?”

               You nod, unable to speak and the water is shut off abruptly, a towel thrown in your general direction to signal that really, you need to hurry up, before you both make your way back to the bedroom, falling into a hot, wet mess; a tangle of limbs, kissing and writhing in the now damp sheets. You groan softly, watching him straddle your hips and he sits up, looking down at you expectantly, your erection clear and pressing into his thigh.

             “I want you, Till.” He tells you, and he rests his hands against your chest. You’ve always wondered how this might have been decided, but all of a sudden an anxiety takes hold of you as it becomes clear what is going to happen. Your brain straightens itself up and understand that Richard intends to fuck you, and this is something you’ve never experienced.  
  
               “Richard, I don’t think I can…” You tell him, and you feel disappointed in yourself as the words leave your mouth. You can see he is disappointed too but he’s hiding it well, so he leans down carefully and presses feather light kisses to your skin.

               “It’s okay.” He says softly against your skin, “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” he says. “Will you let me do some things to you?” He cooed, leaning down to kiss you softly. “I promise I won’t hurt you…” pressing feather-light kisses over the singer’s heated skin. “Let me please you…” he groaned softly, rolling his hips against yours. There was a sharp intake of breath from him, and a low growl in his throat. Richard slowly sits up, looking down at you and a devilish smile spreads across his face. His eyes are dark and telling. But you don’t have to signal, Richard knows you’ve agreed to his request. And he did just that; he sets to work, kissing lower, letting his teeth and tongue nip and swirl over sensitive skin, biting at the inside of your thigh gently. He takes your cock at the base in his hand and slowly runs his tongue from base to tip, your breathing growing erratic. Your fingers gently run through Richard's hair before gripping at the strands, hips gently bucking against his mouth. He sat up then, leaving you cold and aching, shaking his head as he wiped at his lips. “No. Not like that.” He says softly, biting his lip. He watches and smiles as you writhe slowly beneath him, all aroused and aggressive. He can sense that ache you have in your body for release, but he’s not going to give you the pleasure just yet. _You fucking tease_ you think to yourself, groaning as you reach to touch whatever you can of him, fingers brushing against heated skin.  He slowly gets to his feet, and leaves the room, letting you know he’ll be back shortly. He returns with a small box and a bottle in his hands, looking up at you expectantly. “I knew it was going to happen eventually… And I didn’t want the moment to be ruined, so I thought I’d be prepared.” He looks down at you expectantly and you feel anxiety pooling in the pit of your stomach. You watch him spread some of the lube onto his fingers. He leans down to kiss you gently, and you can feel him smiling against your lips. “Knees higher.” He whispers against, and allows you to do so, before settling back on his haunches to observe the sight in front of him.  
  
                The way he looks at you makes you feel like you’re the only person he ever wants to look at again, and it makes you feel so much more relaxed. It feels weird for you that this is what makes him look at you with great affection, but humans are inherently weird, and all you want is to be his. All you want to do is put your mouth on his skin, but he’s not close enough to you yet for you to do so. He leans in close to you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. He knew he had to be careful with you so as not to hurt you. And while you weren’t opposed to a little pain, with the odd masochistic tendencies now and then, now wasn’t the time for that. You gasp as you feel his fingers gently circling you, and he slowly sits up so he can see what he’s doing. Every fibre of your being tenses all at once, and you feel so much apprehension that it’s overwhelming.  
  
               “You’ve got to relax…” He says softly, moving to press a heated kiss to your lips, groaning softly as he runs his free hand over your chest, taking your mind off the anxious feelings coursing through your body. He must know you’ve never done this before, because he’s moving so slowly, and part of you wants to force him to hurry up, get it over with so the real sex can start but you know better than to rush these things. Your breath catches in your throat once more as he pushes his finger forward, sinking into you, sinking little by little, further into you. You groan softly, your whole body attempting to reject the foreign object intruding your muscles. “Come now, relax, it’s okay.” He whispers against your jaw, gently massaging his fingers in and out, getting you used to the feeling. Once he feels you relaxed, he slowly pushes another finger in, gently twisting them to catch that sweet spot, causing the most effeminate sound to escape your body. He doesn’t seem to mind, and you grip at his shoulders, groaning unashamedly. You feel so overwhelmed with the sensations that you’re not sure whether you’re going to be able to do anything more than lie here and take whatever he gives you.  
  
               “God, you’re so beautiful.” He groans, slowly pulling his fingers from you. He shifts, breaking open the box of condoms he’d brought with him and begins to prepare himself. The reality of the situation comes crashing down around you then, and you feel all that anxiety travelling dizzyingly back to your brain. This is happening, finally. What if you’re no good? What if you’re not what he wants? What if he realises he’s made a mistake and decides to leave you? What’ll you do then?  
  
               “Richard, I don’t know if I can do this.” You tell him, slowly propping yourself up on your elbows, “I’m sorry… I just… I don-…”  
  
               “It’s okay.” Stopping immediately with what he’s doing and puts everything down, leaning down to kiss you. “We can just lie here for a few moments to see how you’re feeling.” Richard says softly, kissing you gently. You nod and he collapses against you, entwined in each other. You lay there for about twenty minutes, and he gently allays your fears with idle chatter and gentle hands running over nervous flesh. You look down at him and he smiles up at you, and you cannot help but kiss him. You want him. “I think I feel ready.” You tell him, “I think we can do this now.”  
  
               “Are you sure?” he says softly, “We don’t have to tonight. I don’t mind waiting, Till.”  
  
               “No, I’m ready, let’s do this!” You say, and he moves himself so that he’s between your thighs once more. It took a while for Richard to rework your body once more, fingers sliding gently into you slowly and carefully with expert precision. Richard reapplied the lube, running it over himself to make sure he was ready. He slowly, carefully, pushed himself forward, a low groan leaving his throat as he sinks deeper into you. He waits, moving slowly, watching you, pressing a long, hard kiss to your lips. “You are so beautiful.” Richard growls, moving so he is closer to you, kissing you deeply. He shivers as you run your hands over his sides, his back, nails digging into sensitive flesh. You just want to be wholly consumed by this beautiful creature. You just want to be near him at all times.  
  
               He moves slowly, painfully slow, and it’s overwhelming. He finally begins to pick up a pace and it’s exactly what you need, the friction between you delicious, feeling your body relaxing under him, nails and teeth diffing into flesh as you move together. And as you progress, your love-making turns to fucking, raw and aggressive. You wrap your legs around his hips, holding him to you, drawing him deeper. His thrusts began to turn erratic, and you can feel his body beginning to tense. His hand moves down to grip at you, his other hand balling in the sheets by your head. He’s willing you to come for him, to spill over his hand, your moans turning to breath holding, and you’re unable to hold back any longer. And as you spill, tipping over the edge, every single muscle in your body tenses, and you cry out, your hands gripping tightly at whatever you can reach of him. Your legs tighten around his hips, pulling him deeper into you, wanting to touch as much of him as you possibly can. You take him with you, and you feel the warmth spread all through your body, and he collapses on top of you, groaning as he holds you close.

                You both lie in each other’s embrace for a good, long time, just holding each other as the post-orgasm haze settles.  
  
                “Are you okay?” He asks, gently raking his fingers through your hair, pressing soft kisses over your skin, to your lips.  
  
                “I’m exhausted.” You admit, laughing softly, running your fingers over his shoulders, feeling the softness of his skin under your touch. He leans up and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.  
  
                “Rest.” He tells you, curling into your body, and you hold each other close, feeling more content than you could ever imagine yourself being.


End file.
